OCCASIONAL BLOG

Surely Surreal

2012-01-13T12:40:00.000-05:00

Basically, I love photography and painting because of the way the images move me. They may make me think, feel or just plain upset my notion of what is possible.

I think I finally realized several things about myself: I love color, texture and shapes. Meaning for me, in the visual arts, does not have to be literal. In fact, I care very little about what the meaning is in a painting as opposed to my near obssesion about every detail about my favorite music.

I really like surrealism.

Here's a cool artist named Naoto Hattori. A brief bio thing here.

How in the hell did the artist even imagine something like this?

Music should be written inspired by this. Wow.

the wasp queen
?

A History of Love, Part 4

2012-01-09T14:09:00.000-05:00

We all have our dreams. Mine was the ogre's
dream of love and romance.
And lots of the steamy stuff too.

"Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past."

"You can't start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one."

Junior high. Good lord! Can we spell awkeward?

Girls still scared the bejesus out of me, but a paradox began to emerge. I was the new kid and according to the attention I was getting, West Virginia girls saw something different than
"ugly" in my mug.

Yes, it shocked me too, but little came of it, gentle readers, as we shall see.

The highest interest I suppose was a supposed inquiry from Tammy, a cheerleader, about "Was I dating someone?" (What does dating mean exactly in junior high circa 1973? I bet it was far, far more innocent than today's post-Clinton-oral-sex-is-not-sex meaning.) Tammy was short, tan and very cute as I recall. I couldn't work up anything more than a "Hi" to her. Combine that with the fact that I wasn't an athlete and my general tendency to be of the creative, artistic (read "weird") type, my chances of being with her or in that social strata, were nil.

Ditto for Molly, another cheerleader, who lived only about five blocks from my house. She was very thin, blond and a bit boyish. She didn't turn my head like Tammy did, but I don't think I grew confident about my new status. Far from it.

Classroom Crushes

There was a Kathy in my homeroom that I used to walk home from school almost every day. With legs that reached to the sky and long hair that would be blown about by the wind, she was something I looked forward to at the end of the school day.

I would walk her to 50th street where her family owned some kind of industrial business.Truck drivers would honk their horns at her as we walked along the main road (Putting that in context now makes me shudder at bit).
That's all we ever did, talk and walk. Was I supposed to ask her out? How do you go out when you can't drive? The thought of my step-dad taking me on a date was too horrifying to even ask. Well, never say never.
Then there was Martha. Martha told me that when I first arrived at school, she was determined to sit behind me and get to know me. We became friends. She wasn't hard to like or get to know.

I may have even been on the verge of "dating" her when she suggested we go to the school dance. Only one way to get there: ask the step-father to drive us.

I don't recall anything about that night except the heavy awkward silence as we were taxied to the junior high gymnasium. The ride home was just as bad. My step-dad was an odd man and socially out of touch his whole life. He had a less-than-subtle was of watching you (and eavesdropping) that used to bug the shit out of me at home, let alone out with a girl.

Long after, Martha dropped a huge hint. She asked me if I had ever kissed a girl. "Sometimes you have to just kiss a girl."

I never did with old Martha, but an invite to a party was the ticket.

"Uh...you don't happen to have a bean bag chair handy, do you?"

Bliss Upon Bliss

It was an invite to Becky's house that gave me the first inkling of what it must be like to have a steady girlfriend.

Somehow in the malaise of mad teenagers running about, I ended up making out with Becky with the two of us nestled nicely on a bean bag chair. That was magical.

We did end up in the bedroom, in a manner of speaking. I don't know why, maybe it was the hint-of-the-century to the idiot lad, but we ended up there. Not that anything happened (That seems to be a theme here, yes?).

We stood in front of a mirror and she told me about the Mary Worth legend of conjuring her spirit by repeating her name three times. I remember holding her hand as we both spoke the surly ghost's name, but nothing happened except, in my excitement, I broke an ashtray with a wild fist pound on the dresser top. Good job, laddie!

After that, I never had another encounter, blissful or not, as that one with Becky. Which lead my uneven mind to ask many questions about the nature of these encounters:

Why doth a young lass offer her kisses and then not any followup?
Why, why, why?

Next: A Desert Place

Blow Not Thy Wind

2012-01-06T14:58:00.000-05:00

"I want to talk about comets, flying saucers, Mozart and mostly myself
ad nauseum. I don't care if you really want to hear me."

Back in a previous blog, I decided that one of the reasons that I feel so brought down by my place of employment is that I felt obliged to answer with all due seriousness every crazy, every blowhard and every know-it-all. These lunoids are mainly of the classical variety.

But happiness comes from removing those elements in life which are unnecessary, regardless of what you believe is policy or the implied right thing to do because "it's your job." Live in simplicity-that's my choice.

I have stuck to my resolution.

Delete - it's so simple and so satisfying. I read not, nor listen.

Why?

There are many factors, but the short answer is I do not want any more damage to my psyche, inspiration or morale.

In music, silence is the frame for the sound.

Silence is the sound one finger deleting.

A History of Love, Part 3

2011-12-30T13:57:00.000-05:00

"History is the meaningful sequence of unpredictable events." ~ Albert Borgmann

Some believe that everything is predestined in your life. I think we only impose order on our past which is a random series of events. We see a path of destiny helped by invisible hands. As much as I want to believe that, there are parts of me that remain a realist.

The sudden passing of my father changed everything. The family spiraled for a while until my mom realized she couldn't manage two maniac growing boys by herself and so she got remarried. Long story short, we moved to West Virginia.

When I visited West Virginia to get used to what would become my new home, I thought I had gone to some southern paradise. The mountains were intoxicating for a kid spent looking at "rolling hills." The people acted differently, the accent was alien but charming and the girls were, quite frankly, friendly and open.

I heard this new speech when I was ordering at Long John Silvers with my step-dad. The girl behind the counter spoke in a way that was so very foreign to me. I have many 'Burgers (Pittsburgh) in my family and the whole rural Pa way of speaking was in my ear and this sounded more like music. Vowel sounds were drawn out, single syllable words could become two or three syllables. "Jeff" became "Jay-eff." for example.

Get to the Hot Stuff, OK?

Actually, this is no tell-all (how dull that would be) and I offer no names (unless they are so ancient it is irrelevant) or intimate details. The Internet is not place for details which could come back to bite my ass. Besides, you gotta be cool, right?

Hell's bells, boys, let's move on.

When I found that a very cute girl was living right next door to me, I could have come out of my skin. Coming out of my skin around the opposite sex was pretty much my M.O. I had zero game.

What I was beginning to discover was the girl who called me ugly back in grade school held an opinion that was contrary to the girls in West Virginia. I was "cute" and even though I didn't believe it, had no maturity to act on it, there was evidence.

Two houses down was a sweet girl whom I shall just call M. M was a tall, lanky, sort-of-awkward girl who had a liking for this lad of tender years. I used to hang out down at her house so much that I knew all her family. The grouchy, mostly silent father, her stuttering brother, her baby sister and her mother, who was the Rosanne Barr of the neighborhood. Her mom was one of the most colorful people I have ever met. Her personality was big, bold, colorful and sarcastic.

M taught me the inequity of attraction, that is, the other person is not drawn to us.She had the all too telling signs when someone has a crush on you: the endless smiles, the laughing at every joke however weak and stupid, the undivided attention. I recognized that when someone has it for you, you hold power over them.

M and I were just innocent kids. We never even kissed.

She gets around.

Terry was a girl who had a reputation for sleeping around. I don't know if this was true, but I was kind of in awe of her nevertheless. She was older than us and she did have a direct sexuality about her. Remember, I'm an awkward virgin with nuclear hormones at this point and no social skills.

One hot summer, I remember smoking some tobacco with her on the river bank. Then we took turns "shotgunning" each other, which lead to some kissing. Some kissing lead to some other more steamier things which lead me to come near out of my tree in lust. It's hot, it's summer time, we're wearing few clothes as it is and we're higher than kites on love. Ahem..

At one point, I got so frustrated that I just got silent. She asked what was wrong and I said that I wanted to proceed further. "If you tell me you love me, I'll let you do it," was her succinct reply. But, hell, I didn't love her. I didn't know what the fuck love was, let alone tell a girl you actually love her!

By all that is true, I couldn't muster up the words, even for my first experience of heaven. I can't stand back now, all Wordsworth-like, and declare this a time of innocence and a coming of age story. Hell's bells, I wanted a girlfriend in the worst way. This was lust, so why didn't I just lie and embrace love's opportunity?

Beats the hell out of me. I must have had morals.

Next: Don't Stand So Close

Hell Hath Frozen Over

2011-12-29T14:21:00.000-05:00

Rock's most flamboyant and hilariously lovable frontman/asshole,
rockin' Diamond David Lee

David Lee Roth returns to Van Halen and a new album and tour are planned.

That's something I never expected to see. Kind of like Roger Waters and David Gilmour hugging it up on stage.

The classic '80's lineup of Van Halen was most amusing to me. Not only was Eddie Van Halen changing electric guitar playing with his innovative virtuosity, but drummer Alex had a most distinctive and influential sound (sampled on Funky Cold Medina) and bassist Michael Anthony had a better voice than any of VH's frontmen. As much as Eddie's chops made my head swim and our fingers seem useless, it was David Lee as comic sexgod ringmaster who kept me in stitches.

Roth reveled in his reckless rock star lifestyle while counterbalancing it with strenuous workouts and martial arts. Eddie probably felt a little jealous of Roth's magnetism, plus, I can't imagine David Lee is an easy guy to work with, but it was clear to everybody who was bringing what to the table.

When asked about tension in the band, Roth told Musician magazine: "There's tension between me and the bus driver. We're not traveling at ground speed."

Or other quotable quotes:
"I used to jog but the ice-cubes kept falling out of my glass."

'Whatever guy said that money doesn't buy you pleasure didn't know where to go shopping."

"I was with a girl not terribly long ago and she said "Mr. Roth, I think you’re the oldest person I've ever been with." I said "Honey I was gonna say the same thing to you."

"The world's a stage, and I want the brightest spot."

Let's hope Eddie and DLR can keep things in perpective: Eddie brings the talent and Roth brings the entertainment and big fun.

And hopefully more hilarious quotes.

Death of a Dictator

2011-12-21T14:26:00.000-05:00

Tears of sorrow or joy?

News footage of the North Korean people in mourning over the death of all around nice guy and dictator, Kim Jong-Il, brings to mind several points:

1. Tears of joy or sorrow? They can't believe their self-annointed god is dead. Are they happy the old goat is gone and faking it for the cameras? I imagine Big Brother there watches day and night.
2. What mad man will replace him? Give a meglomaniac a kingdom and he wants the whole world.
3. How many of the North Korean people secretly embrace the idea of democracy?

Panic Not

2011-12-19T14:02:00.000-05:00

A few things to reflect upon after this week's events.

Panic is an option, but not a good one.

This little expression of mine is something I tell myself when performing before a live audience. I try to make light of what is essentially hilarious: me in the spotlight for one and how freakin nervous I get.

I got to MC before a sold-out crowd at an annual holiday event. Everybody backstage was so relaxed and down-to-earth, but these people had done this thousands of times before. I was the new boy. I was watching my pulse hover between 94 and 104. That's like a mild treadmill pace for me, but generally my pulse runs a lot lower than that. Panic is an option....

I kept hoping to find a way to slow myself down inside, but nothing worked. When this happens, I know that the only thing that will bring some relief is walking out on that stage.

Thank mercy for the soundcheck. At first, I felt a little winded and thought, "This will never work. Calm the fuck down." After facing an empty hall and bantering with the invisible sound engineer, this "first blood" was what I needed.

Still, being on a stage, even just reading from a piece of paper, takes practice. The band performs all the time-sometimes as much as three times or more a week. Plus, with the chops they possess, it flows out of them like water. They had their game down ten-fold.

In the end, things went well and everybody had nice things to say.

So kids: panic is an option,

but tell panic to go outside and wait in the car.

You'll be out after the show.

As the Crow Flies

2011-12-14T14:10:00.000-05:00

Call it something spiritual.

Oh no. He used that word. Let the arguments ensue.

I see that spiritual life, in any unconventional form, brings up the same sceptical attitudes over and again.

Spiritualism is not simply a question of rules, regulations, morality, ethics and the appropriate punishment for violation of such. Spiritualism is very different from religion. Spiritualism is what you do to commune with yourself and the world, both seen and unseen.

Morality doesn't enter my mind when I watch crows circle in a cloudy sky. Down near 53rd street, crows have been gathering on this one tall tree by the river. If you just pause and watch, something changes in you. You begin to sense something. I don't athropromorphize the crows. I don't judge them, I just watch. It's beautiful. It's spiritual to me.

Of course, this suspicious behavior brings out neighbors who want to know what this crazy man is doing. "Watching crows," I said to the lady, who came out to see what was going on, before she could mouth the question that was already on her face.

Why? Why would anyone stop and watch some stupid birds?

I'm surprised the police didn't show up.

TV talk

2011-12-06T14:27:00.000-05:00

Stuff that's worth your time.

Best actor, Michael Pitt. You'll see.

1. Boardwalk Empire. I never thought after the Sopranos that HBO could ever produce another hit series. As Boardwalk draws to a close, this has been superb. The cast is one of the strongest I've ever seen in any movie or on TV. It's that simple. Prediction: multiple Emmys. I'll buy ya lunch if I'm proven wrong.

2. Homeland. Although reaching the season's end, Homeland is just getting started and each episode rewards the viewer with twists that challenge the mind and stir the emotions. Claire Danes is excellent as the more-than-slightly unstable CIA agent who has been hot on the trail of Sgt. Brody (Damian Lewis).

3. Dexter. Why do we root for a serial killer? Because he satiates his "dark passenger" by murdering people who are worse? Whatever the moral vagaries, we watch because this series keeps moving and lets the characters' actions speak for themselves.

4. Hell On Wheels. I had low expectations for this AMC series, but this gritty vision of the "Union Pacific Railroad's westward construction of the first transcontinental railroad" is unflinchingly brutal and savvy. SPOILER:

The fight scene was a little weak, but the aftermath was great.

Moot point: It goes without saying that Big Bang Theory is the best ' com on telly today.

I Coulda Been a Contenda
The Walking Dead "mid-season finale" closed with an episode that had a glimpse of the potential that this series has so consistently failed to reach. Drag, drag, drag, talk, talk, talk. If I want that, I'll watch the Lifetime network. Will someone step up and save this series????

Brit stuff:
Whitechapel. Worth a watch.

Real duds:

Unforgettable. I didn't think that the "watch me watch myself in the video vault of my mind" trick would be the reason to watch. Dull and predictable.

Person of Interest. Started out good, then fell flat. Can't say why.

Two and a Half Men. OK, now I'm starting to miss Sheen. Kutcher's lonely hearts club band song is a bit of suspending disbelief. He's funny, but Alan and his dopey son seem like they belong to another sitcom. The three are not coming together in a convincing way. You can see the strain.

Two Broke Girls. They have a horse that lives with them in NYC. Can I have the number of the doctor who precribed the medical marijuana? Laughs are occasional when el skeezo Jonathan Kite lets loose a way inappropriate invitation to love-which is all the time.

A History of Love, Pt. 2

2011-12-01T14:58:00.001-05:00

Get Thy Bearings

In junior high, whilst still living in Pennsylvania, this amorous mess still continued.

There was a girl named Cindy who thought me cute. I was a bit taken back and way too backwards to know how to react. I certainly wasn't sure of myself at all. I do remember she had perfect blond hair and she wore a brace on one of her legs. The brace didn't bother me and I never asked. This was long before anyone at all had any sensitivity to a disability. At the end of the school year, she gave me her picture and wrote, "To the cutest boy in town. Love, Cindy." I think my brother, kind soul that he is, made fun of her.

Well, hell's bells boys (a drafting teacher used to say that). This might not be bad.

Enter Darkness

The move to Charleroi Area High School was a cold shower and a quick introduction to the inherent cruelty of kids this age. Again, this was back in the days when bullies roamed the halls, free to do whatever the hell they pleased to any underclassman who had the misfortune of being in the pathway of these sociopaths. The area I grew up in was pure redneck blue collar with a mill town mentality. As my cousin referred to them, before moving to California, as "dirty mill towns." Absolutely fucking right.

I saw violence on a daily basis. A senior threw pepper into someone's eyes and then excitedly told his girlfriend what he had done. A kid spit in my face, one guy taunted me as he stole the basketball from me that I had brought as part of a class demonstration, books were knocked out of my hands. In short, this was an ambiance of a state penitentiary. I learned to be aware, to mistrust and to hate. There were daily fights. Kids would sound the blood-thirst alarm: "Fight! Fight! Fight!" Everyone would gather to watch wild hay-makers throw by sweaty, red faces. Students and teachers got into fights. Now, it seems a little unthinkable, but this was Charleroi High School: brutal, ugly.

What did the teachers do? They were either rolled over, abused and eaten alive. Or they were hard-assed bastards who ruled with an iron fist.

It's a wonder I haven't ever gone completely off.

Sidebar: I will one day have to blog just about this time period.

Oh, back to our topic. I remember a girl named Robin who sat on my left. She entranced me as she would wear some pretty provocative outfits. She was damn cute. How else would I remember her name decades later?

Then the class hottie was named Kathy. She was way out of my league. I noticed that even the seniors hit on her. I was probably a tongue-tied mess around her. I certainly wasn't old enough to drive or go out on dates. I think I just stared at her. She was beautiful.

Where I lived during this time was a place called Lover. Yes, the irony is not lost on this old boy. Lover, Pa was pretty much farmland, but you could call it a more rustic form of the 'burbs.

Life out there was pretty much "guy world"- meaning it was pretty much male friends with whom you played sports, hiked in the woods or sat around talking about girls or school events.

There was a girl named Terry (Boncarosky?) that I used to walk across a huge stretch of farmland to visit. I cannot recall how or why the courage was summoned to talk to her, but my guess is that we had to have shared the same bus. I must have been around 11 because I used to sing "These Eyes" by the Guess Who (came out in the US in 1969) as I wandered over to her house. (Why my mom thought it OK to let me wander about alone at such a young age speaks of the innocence of the time and place I suppose.)

The whole thing must have been hilariously awkward as an early Woody Allen movie. I just can't imagine what the hell we talked about and how goofy it all must have been.

Redd's Beach circa 1955 (before my time, dammit!)

Redd's Beach

Each summer was filled with wonders and endless possibilities. I felt like I was released from prison when school let out and the glorious and seemingly endless days of summer were ahead.

When the fam decided to join Redd's Beach, which was a huge pool for its time, this opened up a whole new world. That world was boogles of girls all in pool attire.

My pal, Richard, had a huge crush on this one blond. I distinctly remember him talking about her constantly and she damn well knew it too. At the time, Herb Albert had a big hit with, "This Guy's in Love With You." We were all in the pool and she pointed at Richard and sang, "This guy, you see. This guy's in love with me." Can't say I blamed him.

She didn't reciprocate, but neither did she treat him as if he didn't exist. Richard was a fat lad and as much as we now pretend to be blind to these things, fat boys had "romantical" troubles. They still do.

I do remember some magical moments where we'd get into a splashing/dunking fray with some girls. I was a flaming heterosexual and I knew it.

If I could somehow enter a time machine and talk to that 11 year version of myself, boy could I tell him some things. One of them would be: "Kid, it rarely gets better than it is right now."

Part 3: He has to move in order to kiss a girl

Signs o' the Times?

2011-11-29T13:29:00.000-05:00

What idiot at the station thought that made any sense?

Mewonders why TV exists. Mewonders why I pay for cable.

Time Future and Time Past

2011-11-22T14:04:00.000-05:00

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.

Don't worry if you avoid contact with me at the grocery store.
I am trying to avoid you too. It ain't personal.

Grocery stores are interesting places sometimes, especially around the holidays. The holidays seem to be a rather brutal time of year no matter what horror or ongoing mess is happening. I suppose we think that we get some divine pass because it's Turkey or Santa time. The holidays only serve to underscore the messes that are our lives. C'est la vie.

First, I passed a friend's wife. She did the double-take and then smiled. I know about some of her personal problems she's been suffering through, so I left the exchange at that. The next time I passed her, I guess we skipped the hellos and decided not to recognize one another. The mask was gone-the smile was replaced by an aged, haunted look. Age she no doubt saw on my face as well.Worries are demons we carry on our backs, silently trying to kill us if we let them. Experiencing some rather intense ones of my own, I recognized the pain. Best to respect it with distance.

Then, making my usual backtracking for a forgotten item, I saw a guy that used to sing at the church where once I worked. I did avoid him. So sorry. He's the nicest guy you'd ever meet, but I didn't feel like going through the exchange.

Then I ran into an old junior high friend. People do that natural double-take when they recognize you, but not sure if taking the time to chat with you is worth it. Confession: I have avoided some really nice people because I want to get the hell out of the store as quickly as possible.

I saw my old friend, Donny. I went to school with him in junior high and at that time, we were inseparable mates. He did that "friend or foe?" double-take. I get to talk to him so rarely that I never do a true avoid with him.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries-which seems to me to be a test of residual friendliness and compatibility. A kind of tolerance test for future exchanges.

"I thought about you the other day, " I told him, "I remember how my step-dad and your dad used to drive us to school. I remember shivering those cold mornings." His dad worked at a Cadillac dealership and those leather seats were like trying to snuggle an ice block. Both of us have since lost those important figures in our life. He smiled widely. Like I said, we were once thick as thieves.

"I thought about you the other day," he countered. "A friend of mine recently closed out an estate of one of your neighbors. Remember Mrs. __ and how we used to torture her?" Indeed I do. "She recently died at the age of 90. She had one niece and she left her two million dollars. Two million dollars!" We both marveled at that. She lived almost nun-like: frugal, quiet, never loud or ostentatious. Who knew she was loaded?

One memory serves up another. They are, after all, chain links in a fence. She was our neighbor directly across from us. One curious summer, we noticed a man in a brown car circling around and around the block. He'd turn on his dome light and wave at her upper bedroom window. Not very subtle if you're going to have an affair and especially if you don't want monstrous adolescents taking a great interest in your love life.

Which we did. Big time.

We even went up to her door and sincerely told her that there was man circling the block, looking at her house each time. She stumbled to find the right words the insincere concerns of these callous youths and then it came, "He won't harm anyone. He's alright." Screw that, lady. We want to know all about your love life. We are the white devils with little or no moral compass. God help us.

Ions have passed since Donny and I spent those unburdened days as school lads where our greatest concern was the lunch time race to get in line at Burger Chef or Long John Silvers before our hungry classmates. Or whether or not a girl might like us.

So, if you see me in the grocery store, I might do an avoid. Don't take it personal. Alright?

A History of Love, Pt. 1

2011-11-21T14:08:00.000-05:00

Pre-ramble
Why do certain memories stay fixed in the mind and others fade as quickly as dusk? Answer: their importance.

A friend of mine recently said that, in the end, the only really strong memories we have are our interaction with the opposite sex.

The dude has a point.

I'm going to say the third grade was when I became aware of those most curious creatures. I wouldn't take that time as as accurate at all, but it's as close as I can come to pinpointing the time when I was aware of girls.

By aware, I mean they made me nervous. I would twitch and go silent. In high school, my friend started calling me "Silent Sam" because I would go mute around the pretty ones. Not just those, but all of them mystified me. One thing though: I liked what I saw.

Who's On First?

Where do we start? Belle Vernon, Pennsylvania in the year of our Lord 196x. Hell, I can't remember.

I remember going over to some girl's house and standing outside and talking to her for what seemed a long time. She was really cute, but her name is lost to time now. I do remember a Carol Ferguson- a blond whom all the boys had their eyes on. Her family ran the local funeral home. The same place where they would later display my grandfather, father and then grandmother. Carol was just a distant dream-unobtainable.

I suppose Susan Reilly (Spelling a guess, but her name was pronounced as "really") was the first girl I had contact with and my crush was bad. This was third grade and for some reason, I was the new kid. She sat behind me and I liked that-a lot, but a kick below the belt came one day when she told me, "We were in the bathroom and I said to my friends, 'I hope I don't have to help that new kid because he's so ugly.'" Sweet, yes?

You might as well have thrown me out a window. Looking on it now, we know young people play games with words and ignoring someone is a way of not letting your friends you think the new guy is cute. Whatever her meaning, I took the meaning literally and it knocked me sideways for many years.

Third grade went, but Susan and I had classes together and despite her basically calling me the Hunchback of Notre Dame, we were friends. I still had it bad for her. That never changed. One time and this was around Valentine's Day, I had bought her a box of Russell Stover chocolates. For a reason which I cannot now recall, I got really angry with her. Lord help me, I withheld my chocolates and she started crying. I remember her sitting there pissed and hurt, combing her hair, with red eyes. Not my finest moment, but I do recall realizing that Susan knew that I was her puppet. Maybe I just got tired of that role.
Now, before you call me a monster, I will tell you about what one of her friends did to me during Mrs. Smith's class years later. I sitting in the back row, chatting to this girl, so much so that Mrs. Smith warned me about talking.
The girl said, "Look at my shoe." Dumb as an ox, I did and she promptly kicked me in the face.

It is a wonder that I'm not a serial killer.

She laughed, I was stunned, but it wasn't over for me. Mrs. Smith came back and gave me several light shots with her fist to my nose. Yes, teachers hit students back then.

Imagine what I was learning: girls are devious, well ahead and smarter than boys and what they do to you gets you punishment from authority figures.

That was rough, but not the end of the lessons I was to learn about love in all of its thorny glory.

I did learn one thing about myself even at that age: I could get laughs. I don't know why, but being funny or stupid was both a means of getting attention and diverting the anxiety I felt around girls.

One fond memory I have is at a dance. Now, dances are normally traumatizing events where the socially awkward realize with even further clarity their alienation, but this one was part of Phys Ed. As my partner and I twirled about, I made her laugh with, "I'm going to vomit." I wanted this magical moment to be repeated when class came again, but it didn't happen. It occurred to me that moments like that cannot be recreated. They are spontaneous.

****

Later, I remember developing a friendship with a girl who was very sweet to me. Once I got over my initial shyness (Yes, once I was shy.), talking was a lot easier. I wish I could remember her name dammit.

She even flirted with me. "When a girl does this," she said while scratching the palm of my hand, "it means she wants you to [insert needed]." I honestly don't remember what sexual thing she was describing. Sorry to disappoint, but that has flown with time as well. I remember it because she was so nice to me.

I do remember having a long conversation with her over the phone. This was progress. Girls don't have to kick you in the face nor call you names.

OK, I'll stick with this.

We Are Not Nitpicking

2011-11-17T11:59:00.000-05:00

As a Bass Trombonist I must take issue with the Toronto Symphony version of the Polevetsian Dances you played in the previous hour. In the 3/4 section the Bass Trombone down beats were obliterated by the timpani.

Several possibilities come to mind:

The Bass Trombonist was either absent or incompetent

The conductor was at fault allowing the Timpanist to overpower the Bass Trombone

The recording engineer did not place the mikes properly

You have other recordings which are correct in the balance between the Timpani and the Bass Trombone. In the future please play one of those rather than the Toronto. Thank you.

The Walking Dud

2011-11-09T13:37:00.000-05:00

More of these, please.

AMC's The Walking Dead is pissing me off.

Well, come to think of it, I'm really not that passionate about it all. I find my mind drifting off during the dull "character developing" yak sessions. Lori and Rick having a dramatic moment! The love triangle with Shane! And all these merry survivors are getting along just peachy and care about one another. It's dull and heavy handed, quite frankly.

It's as if Walking Dead's writers are writing in neon: See? We're not just a shallow series with grisly canabalism or glorious Pekinpah head shots! We have story.

We can learn about charcters through their actions, not just meandering and dull dialogue. The bible of all zombie movies, Romero's Dawn of the Dead has four very vivid characters, all with distinct personalities (and issues), and when there's dialogue, it's not forced as it is in this series. Argh!

Less of this, please.

Rev it up or ratings will drop.

My Thin Rhinoceros Skin

2011-10-28T16:00:00.000-04:00

Distrust anyone who wants to teach you something.
~Robert Fripp

I get lots of emails. Most of them are very nice. Some of them are not so nice.

Rhinoceros skin. I suppose that's a common metaphor to say that a person is not overly sensitive or thin- skinned. I am not particularly thick-skinned by any means, but after I calm down from my homicidal state, I can see that most of these disturbingly critical emails and phone calls are pathetic cries for attention. That still does not quell my homicidal rage. Sometimes it rolls off my back and sometimes the audacity is simply jaw-dropping.

Engineers get special communications from know-it-all blowhards who insist that it's our fault when reception is poor. One idiot actually said, "I am an Audiophile (his caps) with a gifted ear." I'm not kidding.

It's all our fault and we deeply apologize for whatever is wrong
with your lousy reception out there in TV land.

One idiot repeatedly told an engineer he had issues and our guys actually drove out to his bleamin' house. Lo and behold, an aerial on his roof was supposed to suffice in this digital age! He wasted state resources, so that he could garner attention from us.

The delightful people I sometimes hear from are not just rude, but condescending.

Classical music listeners are the worst. To believe them, you might think I just stepped off a turnip truck and my best shot at writing my name is an X.

They wish to educate me.

Seriously? I bow to my friends in their respective fields and in no way, shape or form am I the baddest dude in music (or academia), but most of the time, I feel comfortable among my peers. That's what matters most to me.

One college prof blowhard said he didn't want his students listening to me because I mispronounced (in his opinion) a title of a work. I have news for him: college kids are more concerned with hooking up and rolling doobies than listening to public radio or to his terminally dull lectures.

Then there comes the offer "to help."

No thanks, Mr. Bowtie. I'll pass on the tutelage.

It is the utter presumption of superiority that drives my blood pressure into dangerous zones.

The worst of them may be the ex-announcers who sit around and latch on to every mistake. This one guy kept calling me and while he had a friendly tone, I kept catching his little put downs. These conversations continued because I try to respect all callers, but soon the devil came through the mask. I was a gentleman and never said anything until one day he stated, "I would listen to (xxx station in a bigger city), but I can only get it in my car."

I held my tongue which wanted to unleash, "Then get in your car, motherfucker and quit calling me."

From that day forward, I never allowed his calls to be forwarded to me, only voice mail.

Not to further drink of poisonous thought, but there was one ass from the northern part of the state who made it his mission to piss me off or bring a downer to an otherwise happy week. I found out that this guy applied for my job and was turned down. He even gave money to ensure his position.

Well, he failed to get the gig and punished me for it. Most of all, he wanted attention. A really poisonous person by my reckoning.

Of what then did ye learne?

This is one of many reasons I enjoy my weekends, vacations and a genuinely look forward to retirement. I imagine myself staring vacantly at the ocean on some forgotten part of the Outer Banks. More than slightly blotto from an aged rum and a real guarantee that my inbox will be filled with happy, friendly emails from friends who want to come visit my island bungalow.

2011-10-20T14:19:00.000-04:00

When the ghosts ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

American Horror Story on FX. Watch if you like to be scared. Dark, sexy, freaky and convincing.

Excellent cast, great pacing and ghostly thrills.
Jessica Lange should get the Emmy.

This is NPR: Negative Public Relations

2011-10-20T13:28:00.000-04:00

Lisa Simeone has been canned from Soundprint because she attended an "Occupy" rally.

Geez guys, after Juan Williams, you might want to keep from making such PR blunders, but I guess you didn't learn your lesson.

Home is Where the Hero Lies

2011-10-19T14:48:00.000-04:00

Damian Lewis (Band of Brothers) plays a
marine who has been rescued from terrorist
captivity, but has he turned?

SHO's Homeland is daring and compelling. Damian Lewis is a chameleon who can go from looking like the nicest guy in the world to a man who looks insane.

Claire Dane plays the CIA agent who own zealotry borders on mania. She's convinced that this is a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Mandy Patinkin (btw, who is notorious for leaving in the middle of productions) is the doubting Thomas reining in Dane and her unfounded suspicions.

Who is playing for who? Nothing is as it seems. Trust is hard to come by.

There's already been one character goneski.

Canceled

2011-10-18T14:47:00.000-04:00

NBC has canceled freshman drama The Playboy Club.
I'm a little. but not a lot surprised.

"Playboy Club's cancellation comes after the drama premiered Sept. 20 to underwhelming ratings, attracting 5 million viewers and a 1.6 rating in the advertiser-coveted adults 18-49 demographic."

Ratings, not sexplotation, killed the bunnies.

"The series faced a backlash almost from the start, as the Parents Television Council called for a boycott and urged sponsors to pull out of the show that starred Amber Heard and Eddie Cibrian in a 1960s-set story about the Chicago Playboy Club and the bunnies and men who loved them.

Seven advertisers exited the series in the series’ second week after PTC president deemed the show a “commercial disaster” and called for the network to cancel the “degrading and sexualizing program immediately.”

Really?

To Badly Go Where None Dare Go

2011-10-12T13:29:00.000-04:00

Sonny Bono's 1967 Inner Views is now a real contender
for worst album ever made. Scientists are studying this
as we speak.

I consider myself to be very amateur student of bad film. Two boxsets of Drive-In Classics and Horror Classics on the home DVD shelf are not there just for looks or an outward sign of ironic hipness. My wife and I have watched a majority of these bad, bad cinematic examples for the sheer pleasure of bad cinema. This interest extends to bad music. To clarify, not the bad music I hear at the local super market (formulaic Nashville, Emo, etc.), but music that was produced with serious intention.

Today, my colleague played me a track from this album.

Dear Lord! When they were punishing William Shatner, they were aiming low. Sonny Bono (God rest your soul) may have made the worst celebrity lp ever.

"Pammies on a Bummer" easily tops anything on that sacred document of Shatneralia.

Did Bono not hear the awfulness or was he just cashing in on the moment of popularity?

Whatever the reason, once you make vinyl, it's forever.

The Rhetoric of Arrogance

2011-10-10T12:07:00.000-04:00

This hateful son-of-a-bitch asks the most outrageous of things from
record companies: fair payment of royalties. How ridiculous and
presumptuous of this menace. Let him eat cake!

So, you kids dreamed of being a professional rock musician? Be glad the gods never punished you.

From the RF diary Thursday, 29th September 2011 :

Now, onto OMG! – it’s UMG. The latest development in this sad example of a large company, making a series of mistakes which it initially denied, then grudgingly fiddled with and acknowledged some culpability, followed by more denials, obfuscations, threats, bullying and an Outside Lawyer Man sent in to settle with us for a fraction of what is properly due. An Outside Lawyer man because the issue is not worthy of UMG staff’s time, let alone the time of Power Possessor Numero Uno.

Nevertheless, the three principals of two small companies, Panegyric and DGM, are themselves dealing with the repercussions of deliberate slipperynesses at considerable cost to our creative and business endeavours. Guestbook posters who ask – why don’t you do XYZ and undertake these wonderful wheezes to delight your loyal and engaged customers? – now have one clear answer as to how several worthwhile projects are not projecting, with or without a K: we are being diddled and dissed by the largest music group in the world.

When we act badly, we hurt other people. When we know we have acted badly, and persist with the course of action generated by our bad behavior, other people get more than hurt: their sense of decency is offended, their confidence in social and professional norms undermined. Where the larger business culture accepts bad practice as standard practice, such as in the music industry (within my direct experience), and financial services (some within and mostly without my personal experience), the larger society becomes unsustainable, in the longer term. In the medium term, there is increasing breakdown. In the short term, there are resorts to conventional forms of redress, both formal and informal.

More Tube Stuff

2011-10-07T12:26:00.016-04:00

OK, I watch commercial television. Call me low-brow. I don't own a jacket with patches on the sleeves either. I think it's got the best writing right now, particularly cable. Don't know why, but it does.

"Hey, let's see what Dexter is up to tonight!"

PBS is only a fraction of what we watch. Guess what PBS? The British programs are the best programming on your airwaves. Shouldn't that say something? You better get more compelling (Laurence Welk is a joke that even SNL mocks.) and follow the example set by cable or you will go the way of the eight-track tape.

1. Revenge. That little slam against PBS being said, there is something artificial about network TV. ABC's Revenge is a great example. While Emily VanCamp does a delightful turn as a woman out to destroy despicable Martha's Vineyard snoots responsible for the ruination and death of her father, there is something almost too predictable and clean about this show. Network TV has this way of making everything look so perfect that only the best actors can penetrate the sterility.
Madeleine Stowe does a great turn as the ice-bitch-queen of the Martha hive. Imagine if HBO had done this show. Now that would be a real fun time.

My rating: not bad, but let's rev it up a bit.

Critics have been praising Dechanel
as the goofy, but lovable, Jess on
New Girl. I liked the false teeth she
insisted on wearing to a wedding.

2. New Girl. The premise is kinda loopy: hot, but goofy to the point past annoying, girl, Jess (Zoey Deschanel), is a recent victim of a romantic breakup. She needs a place to live, so there's these three guys who happen to have a room for her in their apartment. Sounds mighty thin? Yep, but Deschanel is a hoot as a dorky misfit. The writing is good so far, but I'm not sure this is going to last.

My rating: Not bad and keep the laughs coming.

3. Terra Nova. I had low, low expectations for this one. Like SyFy channel low. CGI dinosaurs better be mighty convincing or I'm wincing. Premise: earth is dying (we done kilt it. them eco-assholes were right. huh.) and conveniently a hole in the fabric of time (I'm wincing here) allows folks to go back 65 million years when the earth was new and filled with large dinos. The novo society not only must survive the raging carnivores, but a rogue group of people who split from the tribe to form their own society. Overall, it's not bad. I could skip the ubiquitous teen-love interest storyline, but the youth demographic prevails in network world. Let's hope this show doesn't go the way of the dinosaur unto extinction.

My rating: good start, now let the carno-devouring games begin.

4. Charlie's Angels. One episode said it all: some remakes shouldn't be remade. "Goodbye, angels." It's all beauty, slick, stylish and pretty lame.

My rating: Not this time, thank you.

5. Dexter. This is some dark shit. If you let your kids watch this, you suck as a parent. That being said, Dexter is red hot and the reason cable is kicking the ass of network TV every week.

My rating: a "killer" of a show.

6. Hung. I am the only one in my household with any affection for this odd little show. It's inappropriate and naughty, naughty, naughty, but the humor is what saves it from being Skin-o-max and the show from taking the show too seriously. Thomas Jane understates and that's why his character works.

My rating: fun, light, good stuff.

Awfulness Revealed

2011-10-07T12:15:00.000-04:00

Want a laugh?

Album covers are a thing of the past, but back in the dark ages, they meant something to us.There were some great ones, but then some absurd ones.

I don't think this truly qualifies as awful,
but annoying will do.

Loving the Awkwardness

2011-09-29T13:45:00.000-04:00

Life can be full of beautiful mistakes
or glorious smartasses.

"Uh...pass the awkwardness Uncle Bill."

I want to do an entry on bad classical album art.
This might top the list.

I want to hear the audio, but this cover gives
me the major creeps. Rod Serling, anyone?

Everyone needs a hobby.

Someday I want to make an album.
But definitely not this one.

Add your own caption.

I draw the line at marrying outside of your species.

Audio- yes. Album cover-couldn't be more awkward
and super creepy. A masterpiece.

Tube Time

2011-09-29T11:37:00.000-04:00

America's guilty pleasure: the television.
The best writing is here, folks.

Fall shows have debuted and here are few random thoughts:

1. Boardwalk Empire. This HBO original is on fire right now. Know when a show reaches that creative high point? That's where this show is right now. Watch it or miss some incredible characters.

2. Weeds. This season just finished up and it's time for this once clever and funny show to say bye-bye. The whole season's storylines were weak, pointless and just a rehash. Even the actors seemed bored.

3. Unforgettable. Poppy Montgomery has superior autobiographical memory, but can this gimmick be a compelling reason that brings back viewers? Methinks not.

4. Breaking Bad. I keep waiting for this series to begin to show signs of age or the storyline to become stale. It hasn't and every episode leaves you wanting more. Superb acting, twists and turns- watch the damn thing, ok? You're missing out. "Better call Saul."

5. Survivor. Every year when this starts, I feel like poor Sisyphus and his damned stone. "Now, I'll have to get used to another 16 castaways." What keeps this from extinction is the obvious: people are ultimately interesting to watch, even when they behave very poorly. Or in this year's case, when they begin to unravel mentally.

6. Two and a Half Men. Aston Kutcher is spot-on as a dim witted, billionaire, sex god. Charlie who?

7. Glee. Dullsville. Where's the humor? Where are the fun covers of rock songs? Dancing? The endless touchy-feeliness of teenage angst has become tedious. Yes, we know Kurt is gay and gay is ok (except when he's too gay by his own admission. Whatever the hell that means.), but having to be endlessly reminded of that fact is bordering on OCD. Yes, Rachel was born for Broadway. So let her go there and shine like the annoying. shallow theater nerd she really is. The best part of this show is the evil Sue Sylvester, but ratings have dropped because the show is trying out storylines that we aren't interested in.

8. Desperate Housewives. I find that my mind has been wandering, drifting in and out for about two seasons. It's time for this ham fest to be over. Everyone and everything about this series seems tired and way past its bedtime.

9. Kitchen Nightmares. Talk about formula. Ramsey comes in, acts courteous, tastes the food, it's horrible, then the spanking begins. Why then don't I get tired of the obnoxious, bottled blond, F-bomb dropping, Scotsman? Because the guy, after all his success and undoubted wealth, still gives two shits. You can't fake sincerity (unless your name is Johnny Velvet) and Ramsey acts as if its his restaurant that's on the line. I don't understand that level of commitment. I would have opted out to a private island and spent my days playing guitar in a hammock, but that's why he's a dynamo and I have a loser blog.

What's always interesting is the resistance Ramsey encounters when the delusional owner(s) come to realize that they have been, indeed, fucking up everything along the way.

10. The Playboy Club. No one decided to watch this Mad Men copy with the conviction that the show was going to have some substance amidst the bunny tails. I'm not saying this show has quite caught fire yet, but (spoiler alert) with the Mob, murder and political ambition set against the Hef pleasure dome, they are off to a pretty good start. Now, let's rev it up a bit. Ratings weren't great, but the party's just started.

11. Prime Suspect. Maria Bello has the chops to pull off the hardass female detective type, but I don't yet see anything that distinguishes it from the crowd.

12. True Blood. Some funny moments, some dramatic moments, but then it all feels like a cartoonish sitcom. Must everyone in Bon Temp have magical powers? How absurd. Look! The plot just turned into a bird! Or is it a werewolf?

13. Pan Am. Mad Men ripoffs without good stories never leave the runway. Also, a stewardess is going to be a spy? Good plan. Does anyone smell desperation?

14. Rescue Me. Despite its attempts in the last season to honor firefighters lost on 9-11, Rescue Me has been flat for the last two seasons. I really liked this show for a while, but it forgot its own strengths and when to pack it in. This last season rolled by with few highlights. It's bad when you notice the actors acting. Case is point was the big wedding day. That was amateurish. Not a good way to end a series that had such greatness.
15. Game of Thrones. This had some really good moments and then there were moments when I felt like I was watching a video game. It made me miss HBO's Rome. Come back Titus Pullo, all is forgiven. Kudos to scene stealer Peter Dinklage.

16. Fringe. This X Files copy was a little slow at first and then hit its stride and then some moron decided it was time to invent an alternate universe. Pleeeeease. Here's the alternate universe I'm up for: turning the channel.

Writing Certain Wrongs

2011-09-22T21:55:00.001-04:00

Eno has his detractors, but I write that off as jealousy.
No one has written better ambient music (and other styles) than the man who
invented it. Like Cage, his ideas are seminal.

Preamble

Eric Tamm wrote a really good book on Brian Eno and for some reason, he is giving it away. I often come back to the section on 2/1 of Music for Airports. It's on page 117 if you download the PDF. Here's an excerpt.

The rhythm of “2/1” is serially organized. As Eno has explained, each long note was recorded onto a separate piece of tape, and each piece of tape was made into a loop of a different length. The relationships between the lengths of the loops “aren’t simple, they’re not six to four. They’re like 27 to 79, or something like that. Numbers that mean they would constantly be falling in different relationships to one another.” In fact, Eno did not measure the lengths precisely, but simply spun off what seemed like a “reasonable” amount of extra tape for each note. “And then I started all the loops running, and let them configure in the way they chose to configure. So sometimes you get dense clusters and fairly long silences, and then you get a sequence of notes that makes a kind of melody.”
Tamm explains that Eno ended up with these lengths: Approximate Duration of Pitch-Cycles in “2/1”

c’ eb’ f ab’ db’ f’ ab

21” 17” 25” 18” 31” 20” 22”

Tamm, like most rock cum classical (or vice versa) music writers, prats on a bit about serialism and Webern. It's all fine and dandy until you overthink it and try to put it into too large a frame.

The bottom line is that Eno created an incredibly beautiful piece of music with his usual flair of happenstance, creativity and his downright exquisite (and "untrained") ear.

Where doth the scribe leadeth us?

The Devil in the Details
Let these ideas roll around your head for years and then finally one day commit yourself to writing a piece using this process. The aim: write an ambient piece using Eno's 2/1 procedures.

I understand.

I did not write anything, but rather sampled a recording of John Cage's Music for Marcel Duchamp. I also sampled Raga 12 from 18 Mictrotonal Ragas. I took seven samples, to follow the Eno model, and I restricted myself to them. The original title, for lack of time to keep sane organization of the endless deluge of tracks that were sure to follow, was "John Cage Meets Brian Eno."

On July 6th, I began work, gathering the seven sounds and finally coming to a reasonable mixdown on the 19th. I would not say that I'm totally happy with the results as I am like a crack squirrel when it comes to finishing a piece and mixdowns. If I'm not careful, I can keep on mixing a piece until there are many versions of the same piece. More on this below.

Then the working title had to be changed. I choose "sound come into its own," from a John Cage quote, but then decided that title was too ponderous for this piece. I have settled on "in the fullness of time."

SIDEBAR: I find titles have the burden of meaning everything and nothing. Listeners can apply great meaning to titles and consequently look a little lost when something is intended to be ironic or tongue-in-cheek. When I was younger, I applied great sounding titles to my little half-baked ditties. The title expressed more than the music did. Now, titles are a means to an end. I would assign untitled 1, 2, 3 ad infinitum if it wouldn't be hellishly confusing.
What does it sound like?

Shit is the quick answer.

Naw, not really.

If the whole ambient thing bores the hell out of you, then this is not for you. I made my friend a CD and he said, "Charles Ives' Unanswered Question." It has an uneasy feeling about it for sure. I did not intend that feeling, it just came out that way. I wanted restful and got the opposite. Go figure.

SIDEBAR: One night, at the Slide Mountain Inn in New York - a place where sleep was often difficult and creepiness was in the air- I put on some early mixes of the piece that I had done. There was my Mac Book, glowing in the corner, playing this odd, shall we dare say, "piano piece"(?) and I had to get up and turn it off. It was like a bad acid trip coming on. Tres creep city, kids.

The link on soundcloud. A short version.

Here's what I learned from it:

1. This piece should move me.

This seems so obvious, but in the fury of embracing what seems to be a new path of composing, it is easy to think more of the process than the end result. Forest for the trees, etc.

2. Regardless of the process or procedure, you should (must?) end up with the piece you intended.

At one point, I had followed the Eno formula exactly, but it wasn't working with the sounds I had chosen. The procedure then has to be flexible and altered a bit.
3. Know when you've gone down the rabbit hole.

Oh God. This should be on every piece of electronic equipment, software or gizmo which promises to revolutionize your sound and/or your playing. That pursuit is indeed going down the rabbit hole. But, in a composing sense, I have learned by many a trip down the proverbial hole that sometimes you are just wasting time and going nowhere with the piece. Do I know this or what? I am discursive by nature and this one rule burns brightly in my mind. In fact, I said this to a colleague Tuesday night. We have both been seduced by technology, software and new ways of writing.

4. Not every "interesting" idea is worth pursuing.

Musicians who feed on finding new ways of expressing themselves often fall in love with every idea that passes through their minds; as if the wandering mind is to be totally trusted. (Diversions of this nature at rehearsals are a great example.) Some ideas greatly benefit the music, others simply waste time. Separating good from bad- there's the rub.

5. Each sound (or chord or melody) must be interesting in and of itself.

Not so easy. The samples I used were dull when subjected to repetition, so I had to go in and either find a better sample or process the sample and make it more complex or "interesting" (there's that no man's land word again).

6. Each sound should be able to bear repetition.

7. Dynamics are ok.

Wait a minute. Am I talking about being in a band here? Maybe, but dynamics are something that seem to be a lost art. Ditto tone color.

8. Ask yourself, "What have I ended up with?"

9. Know when the piece is finished and when you are writing a new one.

The whole of revisions and mixing can lead to a rabbit hole of rewriting or writing a new piece. Have I wasted time on this before!

10. Restrictions are good.

Restraint, restraint, discipline, taste, balance. Wow, what a dinosaur am I.

And Lunch is Even Better

2011-09-19T14:48:00.003-04:00

http://www.kanawhachurch.org/forumnew.htm

September 21 - Ikarus, (Celtic Quartet) Jim Lange, Al & Lisa Peery, David Porter
Menu: Zucchini Basil Soup, Rice Salad with Shrimp, Pecan Pie Muffins, Strawberry Swirl Cream Cheese Pound Cake

program:

Aguinaldo Jibaro..................................................Traditional Puerto Rico, Lange

Cornish Dance - Volta - Scottish Dance.............William Brade / Anon.

Dream at Dawn.......................................................Dick Hensold

Celtic Suite: Absent Minded Woman - Blackberry Blossom - Arkansas Traveler -
Hag with the Money - Daniel of the Sun - Soldier's Joy - Shepherd's Hey..................Traditional

Better to work on pieces in the morning
than to blow off practice all damn day.

What I really like about the players in Ikarus (and the Velvet Nomads) is the feeling of "we'll try anything." It's eclectic without an agenda to be so.

What's crazy is our schedules and getting together to rehearse is not so easy.

What's cool is that we don't make a huge deal of anything.

No loud drums, thundering bass and other soul sucking elements.

There's probably little or no commercial potential either. We won't be appearing at your local bar, hammering out covers and trying to sound relevant or rockin' out. That's a young man's game and I have nothing left for it.

All I ask is that the guitar be represented fairly, creatively and the landscape open to new ideas.

Short Bits

2011-09-13T13:13:00.000-04:00

My friend, Ben, is quite possibly the most educated man you are ever likely to meet. It's a delight to slowly sip aged rum and talk away the evening about a variety of subjects; many of which go straight over my head. Besides his huge smarts, I admire his acceptance of the often frustrating and despicable human condition. "We're all hypocrites," he said nonchalantly one evening. That kind of floored me. Sometimes big brained people cannot accept being wrong nor their hypocrisies. He accepts them in himself and others.
Better to know and accept. Absolutely.

***

I watched an elderly woman holding on the stair rail with her left hand as she held her walker in her right (paint that image in your mind) as she struggled to enter the Nazarene church in Kanawha City. From what I know of this faith, they take things very seriously, literally and have lots and lots of rules. At the top was a woman who was watching, but not helping, another woman who was having difficulty getting up the stairs. "Gee," methought, "Ain't you Nazarene believers supposed to be kind and charitable to those who may need a hand getting into the house of God?" I couldn't believe the woman just stood there.
Then again, I just stood and watched.

***

At the drugstore checkout, I noticed the girl staring at my shirt.
"Why are you staring at my shirt?"
"I can't figure it out."
"What's there to figure out?"
"Zero 0 gun quit."
"No. no. That's Ogunquit, a town in Maine."

Seriously, let's not ever let this lass work in the pharmacy.

***

Keep Thy Gigs Relaxed

2011-09-02T16:01:00.001-04:00

"Teach us to care and not to care

Teach us to sit still."

Enter all ye olden money and worship
at the shrine of the ass kiss.

When I decided to re-enter the world of public service in the musical realm, I knew full well what I was getting into. Late night hours, keeping my chops up, making sure equipment is up to par, rehearsals and the endless variety and dull sameness of the gigs afforded the functional professional musician. There was a point when I needed a good reboot and time away from the horror of weddings, wine tastings, and other soul sucking gigs that are the bread and butter of the local musician. I'm cool with all that now. It's all good, baby. Just pay me.

My partner, Li-Li, gets a little tense sometimes. Particularly when she has some relationship or friendship with any of the people contracting us for music. This time, we were to play an hour of background music in honor of the 90th birthday of a wealthy matriarch. This was an intimate affair - family only.

On the phone, I could tell that this gig was already getting to her because she reminded me of a well-known King Crimson song that says, "I repeat myself when under stress, I repeat myself when under stress..." She was talking faster and basically saying the same thing. Hell, I do this, so I know the signs.

Which brings us to a handy rule: Keep Thy Partner Calm.

I have been the victim of nerves under numerous occasions and although I can name all the symptoms, I cannot understand why I still get nervous. What am I afraid of? Failure? Sucking? Losing the respect of my peers? Even if I hit the perfect fuck-up trifecta, I would like to believe that my peers, colleagues and friends would forgive me (Now, if that kept happening, people might smile and tell me nice things, but calls for jobs would dry up). I get nervous because I wonder if I can still pull off the fireworks and honestly, I still care. I want to bring the music to life, not just plow through it with precision with no passion (I could name names of players who do that very thing.). When you play music, you must be aware of everything because it's an all or nothing activity. Even in a pretentious country club.

Even if you have the jitters, if you see the "deer in the headlights" look on your partner's face, better be the calming anchor. Li-Li was so worried and tense because she let the tension of this family get inside her head. We envy the wealthy and rightfully so, but wealth does not happiness make. You can rent it for a while and have lots of pretty things, but family is family regardless of portfolios. Besides, nothing says fucked up like family.

She made it worse by observing the family dynamics as we played. "The women (the wheels of power in any family) doing this and the women doing that"-I ignored all that and concerned myself with chord shapes and bass lines. Most of us having been playing for so long that much of this is automatic, but if your attention is elsewhere, you're asking for the occasional derailment.

I thought the music got better the longer we played, but still she was whispering her observations about what family member did this and "Oh, did you see that?"

I saw a relatively uptight family gathering for the birthday of an aged matriarch who probably was used to ruling the family with an iron hand and a tight control on the undoubted millions scattered around banks and investment firms. Control the moolah, control the adult children. Quite honestly, I didn't give a shit about who sat next to who and all the social power games. I am not concerned.

I am a musician for hire. I will be nice, but ass kissing is not in my job description. You get two hours of music out of me. You also get someone who still cares, but you do not get to rent a room in my head.

You can't afford that.

Your Moment of Zen

2011-08-19T13:48:00.000-04:00

Yes, we actually watch PBS. It's not the majority of our viewing pleasures, but when there's something intriguing, it's usually on Masterpiece Mystery.

If Zen appears confused, he's dealing with a lot.
Though oddly he deals with the stress in a cool manner.
He IS Zen, after all.

Lately we've been into ZEN. No, not the school of Buddhism, but Aurelio Zen, a fictional Italian detective by author Michael Dibdin. There's 11 books by my counting and only the first three have been made into feature length episodes. The BBC axed the series. A brilliant move that sounds like another organization I know. Producers are looking elsewhere. I wish them luck because I want more Zen. Dammit.

Rufus Sewell plays the character without all the macho posturing, swagger or cliched alcoholic spiral crap you see in every American series. In fact, not having read the books to compare, but this character is simply hard to pin down all the way around. He's so understated and that's the ringer.

Italian corruption is so common that Zen is used to being set up for failure, or used to protect those with power, money and dirty secrets. He has learned to deftly navigate these hostile waters and even use them for his own advantage. Still, no matter the victories or the compromises, the sticky nature of dealing with the elite and corrupt gets even stickier.

Then all he has to deal with is his lovelife or his homelife.

Yikes!

Downsize This

2011-08-16T13:54:00.000-04:00

The Company Men is a flick starring Ben Affleck, Kevin Costner and Tommy Lee Jones.

Here's the shorty:

Color me obvious and predictable.

This film tries hard not to be obvious, but you can see the plot points coming like a Wide Load sign on the highway.

The film deals with "downsizing" and the what happens when the shit hits the fan as the economy took its initial downward spiral in the 2000's.

It tries to elicit sympathy when Affleck's character loses his six-figure job with CBX, a company run by Jones and Craig T. Nelson. He slowly loses all the trappings and luxuries of such a salary- his Porsche, country club membership and finally, his home.

Methinks the message is clear within the first 20 minutes:

We are our jobs and losing them is devastating.

Gee, it's a bit hard to muster up sympathy for a guy living as large as that. Losing the house and moving back into his parent's place is the real ringer though. But, despite all this, the big message is pushed into our faces over and again. Affleck refuses to accept his new fate and whines about like a little boy. Moments of humor are so rare because the film insists on staying on its heavy and cumbersome message.

There's a scene between Affleck and his wife (Rosemarie Dewitt) where she grabs his face and reminds him that "You have your family. You have me!" Big hug, cue the tears. It was such a cliche I thought I was watching a high school drama for a second. Again and again, we are hammered by the big message.

Meanwhile Tommy Lee and Craig T are stark contrast to Affleck and the others fate. They get richer, knock boots with their younger co-workers (Jones with Maria Bello. Now, there's real fiction.) and seem to relieve the pressure of falling stock and stock holders' confidence by firing more people. Meanwhile, they have bought a new building for a much larger office. Damn them suits!

The film asks us over and again: are you getting our message?

Chris Cooper is the best in the film. He at least brings some humanity to these cardboard cutout characters.

Overall, I'd say skip this one. It's way too obvious and heavy handed.

Fame Dust: Just Add Radio and Stir

2011-08-12T14:46:00.000-04:00

Sure as moonrise, we will get emails and handwritten letters from various parts of our fair state from budding songwriters whose song remains the same:
"I have written a song about West Virginia and I think that your station might like to play it." Then they go on to say, modestly of course, that everyone who has heard it really enjoyed the hell out of it, it looks like a big hit, millions will love it, West Virginians will rally around it, and blah blah blah. Sometimes the subject matter, like the Sago Mine disaster, has a dark turn to it. Still, they promise that it is suitable for the airwaves.

Sometimes their pursuit of this ends with the inclusion of a copy of the song on some unplayable CD. And sometimes it starts with a phone call. That's where the trouble starts for me.

I have tried in the thirteen years of being in the radio biz not to become another jaded asshole who sees his personal failure (in songwriting or whatever) as a means for power over those who might deserve some air time. Music comes first. All those noble and altruistic sounding statements out of the way, there are often good reasons why these songs never make it.

1. The song is awful.
2. The recording was done in a roadside bathroom.
3. "Uncle Bob," a HAM radio operator cum recording engineer, did the recording.
4. Wacky old dudes with out of tune guitars should restrict their music making pleasures to their basement or front porch.
5. No matter my advice, they aren't listening anyway.

This yahoo called me yesterday. Long story short, he wanted to break into Nashville and the music scene. He had written "country songs, rock songs, all kinds of songs." Not wanting to be the a-hole I had promised myself I would not be, I patiently told him the steps I thought he needed merely to be played on our airwaves.

One thing I told him was to listen (what a concept) to the station you are petitioning to play your musicke.
"That's your homework," I insisted.
"I didn't know I had homework or what it was," he answered reasonably.
"But now you know. Listen to my show and the two others I mentioned to see if your song fits their/my format. Every show has a format."

Methought I was getting through and that my pearls of wisdom were dropping unto open shells. Why do I continue with such naivete at my age?

We then went to the website to check out the email address for me and the place where he could email the man who does a show that features more folk-country than mine does. I soon sensed that despite his proclamation that he had an education, that he was having trouble with finding the stuff on the web. I felt like I was dragging a bag of cinder blocks with Mr. Gonna-be-George-Strait.

After fumbling around for what seemed an eternity, I said, "Send the man an email or just send your disc to the address given." I got tired of Mr. Young-and-Hopeful and wished him and thought the matter over.

Not five minutes later, the woman at the front desk calls me. Sweet jumpsuits of Elvis.

"I got a guy on the phone who wants to know if (host of the folk show) works here."
"No, he sends us his show. He is not an employee."
"OK. I'll tell him."

Mr. Can't-Wait-to-Be-Famous either lied about his computer skills (or even owning one) and doesn't wish to be embarrassed (no blame here), but clearly I wasted my time.

As an aside, I have made the following rules for myself:

1. I will no longer entertain listeners' questions that do not directly pertain to the broadcast.
2. I will screen all those who seek to take up my time with their agendas.
3. I will delete emails that begin with a litany of complaints. I will read no further.
4. No more advice to fame seeking cowboys.

In short, I must protect myself and keep my energy focused and positive.

Today, one of these jackels tried to engage me. This man comes in the guise of "colleague" and "listener," but there is a nasty side to him that bothered me so much that two weeks ago, I vowed never to speak to the man again. The line was drawn and it was held.

I am smiling because I am following my own rules.

One I just followed. :0)

They Made What????

2011-08-08T13:20:00.000-04:00

"Hey Sting, I wanna punch you in the face,
but for $122,095.76 I'll tolerate your ass."
Love, Stewart

"But Andy Summers has a greater visibility, not least because The Police Reunion Tour of 2007-08 played 143 shows to (paying) audiences of 3,300,912 grossing $366,287,279; and a significant proportion of those performances were not in former Soviet republics." ~ RF diary

Seriously, Get a Life

2011-08-08T11:50:00.004-04:00

I get lots of emails. Most of them are very nice. Some of them are doozies, baby.

Rhinoceros skin. I suppose that's a common metaphor to say that a person is not overly sensitive or thin- skinned. I am not particularly thick-skinned by any means, but after I calm down from my homicidal state, I can see that these are pathetic cries for attention. I give myself about two hours of down time before I'm rational.

I have learned that to be in radio, you have to toughen up a bit. Or learn to divorce yourself from the job or you will go bat shit crazy.

Classical music listeners (I call them classical Nazis) may be the worst in being rude and condescending in their tone. To believe them, you might think I just stepped off a turnip truck and my best shot at writing my name is an X. And it's not just me that gets this-everyone gets an asshole who wants to show that he/she are far superior to we radio employees. Engineers get special communications from know-it-all blowhards who insist that it's our fault if reception is poor. One idiot actually said, "I am an Audiophile (his caps) with a gifted ear." Please feel free to brag on yourself more, Mr. Hertz.
Classical Nazis want to prove several things:
1. They are critical listeners.
2. They are very educated. More so than you.
3. Absolutely and unequivocally they are unforgiving when any error is made on the air.
4. Most assuredly know they what is good and what is bad music.
5. Wish to prop themselves up higher than you.
6. Feel a compulsion to instruct the ignorant radio host.

Here's what I know:
1. Hosting a show involves a damn sight more than just knowing the music and programming it.
2. College professors do not a good host make. This is radio, not a classroom.
3. Most of these people seem a little off in the head.
4. I don't live and breathe only classical music. That's too limited for my musical imagination and interests.
5. My job doesn't solely define who I am.
6. These pompous jackasses need to get a life and leave me the fuck alone.
This is one of many reasons I enjoy my weekends, vacations and a genuinely look forward to retirement.

I imagine myself staring vacantly at the ocean on some lonely stretch of beach on the Outer Banks. More than slightly blotto from an aged rum, I realize that it's past dinner time. I gather my things and head to my favorite restaurant who I savor fish that hasn't been out of the water more than a few hours. After a satisfying and healthy meal, I head home; ready to play the guitar or watch Netflix. And maybe check my inbox which may be filled with happy, friendly emails from friends who want to come visit my island bungalow.

Maybe, just maybe, I will fill in on weekends at some college public radio station.

Perhaps you've heard of the station?

WFKU.

The Kroger Logic

2011-08-07T18:06:00.000-04:00

The granola shuffle where the price stays the same
despite the expiration date coming soon.

I am a granola addict. Yes, I sound all novo-hippie, but this stuff I eat mindlessly. I especially love the toasted almonds. They are like delicious treasures that you must search for through the grains.

Yes, I am a freak.

Months ago, Kroger's got a bunch of this and put it in a cardboard box. The price? As you see it in the picture. At one point, they lowered the price to $3.99- a price I thought much more fair than the current inflated ask.

So, the granola began to sell. Kroger's ups the price and has left it there ever since. I have kept an eye on this product waiting for a price drop and to see how management works.

One big problem, Krogy: the expiration date is this month.

So, rather than sell, they are just shuffling the product around and letting it go stale.

I have never taken a business class in my life, but damn if this makes any sense to me.

In His Own Write

2011-08-01T14:31:00.001-04:00

What is running through the mind of the man in the shadows?

"Full of broken thoughts
I can not repair."

"These fragments I have shored against my ruins."

This past Friday, I had a gig (rare for Fridays, trust me) as part of a guitar duet for a private party. My guitar playing wizard-friend was kind enough to hire me. The people who hired us were especially nice and so was their stipend. Thank you.

What's cool about these guitar duet gigs is the creative nature of the warm-up material. We do some pretty spontaneous pieces right before we officially start. It's a good way of getting us in sync and a chance to explore ideas without subjecting the people there to any discordant experimentation.

I launched into "Night in St. Cloud" ( inspired by an Edvard Munch painting), a piece that I started many moons ago and have never finished. It has repeated figures and a chord progression that has been haunting me for years. Recently, it has resurfaced and I have been scribbling on it during my morning coffee-guitar-composing bliss before work. We fooled around with it and the ideas generated on the spot got my creative gears moving.

On Saturday, I went upstairs with the purpose of retrieving summer clothes, but digressed to root around in my music files to see if I could find the original sketch. I didn't find that piece, but what I did sent a shock wave through me. When I came downstairs, I was struggling to find the words to explain this to my wife. She's used to my endless, inarticulate attempts to quantify the unquantifiable: the wild horses of my emotions and the discursive nature of my thinking. This is why perhaps I am a musician because ordinary language fails to deliver meaning in its most vivid sense.

Intense creativity or graphomania?

I knew that I had written and sketched some music over the years, but I had no idea how much. Not only the amount, but there was an almost an eerie graphomania about it. Among the traditional and non traditional scores were these graphic elements involving charting all sorts of pitch, timbre and special playing techniques and resultant quarter tones, etc. I knew I went through a deeply cerebral period, but seeing all this stuff, it was as if I was seeing a side of myself that I never quite knew existed.

"And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all."

A famous example of this compulsion.

There are different definitions to graphomania, so to clarify, I mean this from a psychiatric perspective not in the pejorative Kundera sense. As I understand it, graphomania can be an automatic, obsessive desire to scribble meaningless symbols, figures or arcane languages into some kind of journal. This has nothing to do with whether or not one considers oneself an actual "writer," but the writing act is of itself the purpose, the mania, if you will.

There has always been an element of physicality in music for me. The sheer adrenaline fueled muscle movements of some ripping guitar scales or the quiet calm-inducing world of a simple pencil noodling on manuscript paper. There's certainly a tactile and graphic art element to it. Quite intoxicating really.

How obsessed did you become?

While part of all this is explainable- an artist needs his tools and I don't see myself as imbalanced as a whole (although I've had my moments), I can easily step back now and see the manic edge to it all.

You must own one of every kind, right?

When an idea digs roots into my brain, I go to extremes. For example, I didn't just use ordinary pencils. I had to have Dixon Ticonderoga 2/HB soft. I wouldn't go so far as to buy cases of them, but they were plentiful. And no matter how many I had, I worried and thought about buying more. But it didn't stop there as I found myself collecting every brand of pencil that I thought could give me right strength and blackness needed for a clean and legible manuscript. Whenever I was out at a store, a little search down the aisle of the office supplies was essential. My wife would roll her eyes at what she would call my excitement over pens and pencils.

Why, I need all of these, of course. And batches of them. What if I run out?

Then there were mechanical pencils by Pentel: every thickness of lead from the .03 to .09. Even the various varieties of softness of lead. I loved the tiny little leads all snug in their five-sided (?) plastic vessel. You see how cool all that is? Or have I got you shaking your head already?

When I would inevitably lose or misplace one of the Pentels, it would drive me insane. Plus, I hated to loan them to anyone. It felt as personal as loaning someone my guitar. That's not going to happen, amigo. Hands off.

I own a few of these. After all, I may run out!

Then there was the manuscript paper. Some I made, some I bought and every bit of it I kept. I bought manuscript tape-this is like Scotch tape only with a staff on one side. I even contacted a stamp making company to see if a rubber wheel could be manufactured that imitated Stravinsky's staff making tool. I bought journal style, pads, everything. All this stuff kept in a special shoulder bag and transported everywhere just in case inspiration or time opened up. Typical scenario: I would arrange Bach for guitars while my wife would go about her social work business. She'd drop me off and I'd blissfully sit for hours at a restaurant or in the car, as long as composing or arranging was possible.

The Other Stuff

When I see blank manuscript, I feel a sense of obligation and potential. What music wishes to emerge? What new sounds wish to join the world? A friend of mine called once referred to "the tyranny of the blank page." What the fuck was he talking about? I couldn't wait to fill up those magnificent lines with notes, beams and all the symbols of notation. I even bought a book about proper notation. At one point, I really knew my stuff and would point out to students the flaws in their scores.

There was a point at which composing was like heroin: I needed it every day. It was my refuge, my solace, the one place where I could take off all masks and leave judgement outside. I could dream anything and shut off skepticism cold. However, this comes at a cost.

The emotional state after baring your soul to music in a room alone does not translate well to the outside world. An author once told me that after hours of writing, he would find it difficult to reconcile the inner world of being excited by his work and the outer realm of his body. The two would be "out of sorts" and it would take some time to realign them, so to speak. After several solitary hours of writing, I would show up for a rehearsal and someone would say, "You've been writing, haven't you?" Or the silence would give rise to, "Are you ok? You're kinda quiet."

The worst was during the five or so weeks of hell before Christmas when all my free time seemed to be taken up by household and yard decorations. Regarding this festive busyness, a friend once dubbed it, "Christmas hell." Besides the domestic front, I was employed by a church and you can just just guess how little composing time I had. The little I could squeeze out was constantly being intruded upon. I was hateful and loathed this time of year.

I used to sneak down to the university when the house I shared with two other guys got a bit too public for any solitude. One time, to my utter surprise, my roomie knocked on the practice room door, informing me he had two girls out in the boat and wouldn't I like to join them? I was so entranced by the opportunity to write that I said no. He of course tried a million times to get me to go. The girl I had met earlier was surely cute. Why did I turn this down? Because sometimes solitude and music is all that is needed. A man has a soul as well and this needs nurturing.

One time, after a particularly brutal and unsuccessful attempt to find the right notes during a practice room session, I had to take a break. I was minding my own business when a young girl must have observed what she thought was emotional distress and offered advice, "Cheer up! It's gonna be OK." My face must have said everything. It slips my mind as to what my response was, but even I don't take dry periods that seriously.

Big Brain, Little Brain

The period of intellectualizing composition was to prove to others and myself that I was intelligent. There was a certain teacher at the university who represented academia for me; something that I have felt both at home and at odds with. Her students would slowly begin to transform into little academicians and at lessons, I would see this process taking hold everywhere. Slowly, this began a hold on me.

I wanted to prove that although I sometimes have the personality better suited to a California surfer, I was capable of understanding music on these "deep" levels. It's funny what trends and zeitgeists you get caught up in. Some of my friends are not as malleable as I am when new ideas seem to be flying around, catching the mind in an interesting way, but I can easily get quite caught up in a group outlook. Eventually, I will reject it, but a disciple I will be until the idea runs its course.

Gee, Arnie, that looks groovy, but can ya dance to it?

The trouble with intellectual music is that it's peer writing. You are not writing to reach an audience, but rather to impress other academics in your field. Eventually the penny dropped and I began to realize the course my writing was taking was going down a dead end. We (the students and I who began our composing passion back in the day) were holding on to Schoenberg and post-serialism with a big dash of John Cage and George Crumb for color.

When I finally came down to earth, I wrote much more simply-something that reflected my emotions rather than trying to impress anyone. Not wanting to fall victim to what an old college professor said about "scores gathering dust in drawers," I wrote for every group I was in: church choir, flute and guitar duet and a bazillion guitar ensemble pieces. I was not going to write string orchestra pieces when I knew damn well that the chance of even hearing a run-through, let alone a performance is impossible. That to me is setting you up for failure (much like mein old prof-fessore).

I became obsessed with being published and after several rejections, I finally achieved that goal. Yes, that's me. Is it everything I expected? No, far fucking from it. That will have to be a separate blog, dear readers.

This is a Happy Ending (but it costs extra)

Eventually, my passion for it abated and I felt that slow re-entry into a relatively normal life. Sometimes it felt like all I was doing was sketching new ideas and never completing pieces. This is the hard part- having a workable, finished product. Everyone has ideas, even stupid ones, but I never wanted to be someone who simply ran their mouth and never took action. I felt that, in this regard, I have been successful.

But on the other hand, I have reconciled myself that "success" is not something in the stars for me. I see the walls of my limitations pretty clearly and I don't think this is being negative on my part. Although I have many ideas, these have to be quality controlled and quite often I follow these diversions until I see that I've gone once again down the old proverbial rabbit hole. My mind is circular in its path and my burden is to fend off the endless possibilities that my mind generates and arrive at what is organic and suits the purpose of the piece. I never suffer from a blank page, but rather, it can be filled with shit. So, shit quality control? Sorta.

Maybe one day, I will begin to try to fathom the endless piles of music upstairs. It does haunt me. I hate the state of chaos and incomplete pieces, which is why I am slowly chiseling away at "Night in Saint Cloud" again. But I come to it with a without a desperate edge, as I have nothing to prove to anyone. I do it for pure pleasure.

That's why I did it in the first place.

"We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time."

Amen.

2011-07-29T13:30:00.003-04:00

A blinking answering machine. What doth the little satan want this time?

I listened to the message and found out that one of my dear ex-choir members had died. I immediately called the one person, let's call her D, that I knew who could give me the scoop. A confidant and friend from those days when I served as "music minister" some seven years ago. We hadn't spoken in a while, but with her, it's as if time never passes. We simply pick up where we left off with no judgments.

D told me what I had heard so many times before: a long and arduous struggle with a chronic disease, causing a slow but serious weight loss, which ends with the body running out of resources to fight. In short, you run out of fight and options. It's hardcore, I know, but that's the way it plays out. But Mary had 85 years. That's pretty damn good by my reckoning.

Mary was a retired nurse who was the alto anchor in our little mismatched choir at St. Anthony's. We were a ragtag, badly blended, vocally unbalanced (mostly women) primarily elderly group who did our best to bring music, if not to celestial heights, then certainly to the congregation. Catholics are notorious for not being the most full-throated of congregants. They must be strenuously encouraged. What we achieved was to bring and open and friendly, genuine spirit to the music that made it easy to sing along. This is the sole purpose of music: to praise the creator through song. What we lacked in polish and pitch, we made up for in presentation, enthusiasm and love.

When my appointment at the church was clearly threatened by Father "Dismal," I would often call Mary at home just to see if she saw the same writing on the wall as did I. This dear lady agreed with me that I was not in fact just imagining things, but that the old priest was indeed secretly plotting to be rid of me for purely financial reasons. Music and musician's services should be free? Right? When most of the choir tried to allay my fears by writing off his antics as the act of a disorganized mind, Mary and I were in clear and sharp accord and in the end, completely right.

She had worked at a hospital for several decades and drew many parallels in my situation and the shifty practices of the suits in administration. She said she could always decipher the rhetoric and know what was really being said and the subsequent changes. Her honesty was something that was very much appreciated. Plus, she had a wonderful sense of humor.

When it was apparent that my time was over, I asked her what she was going to do. After all, wasn't there any loyalty among choir members and their director? Nay, stay thy ego. The answer was typical: "I have been at St. Anthony's all my life and no priest is going to run me off." That settled the matter for me.
* * *
It felt weird returning to the place where I had spent eleven years as choir director, considering the circumstances of my dismissal and considering was attending a funeral viewing of someone with whom I had spent countless Sundays. She was always there early and always with a cheerful disposition. Lovely.

On the steps, a few faces smiled and said hello to me. Well, that's a nice start, but reminded myself repeatedly that despite any discomfort, this was not about me.

I made sure D and I coordinated our arrival at the viewing. It's good to have friends and support. She was already there and had her mom with her. She came over and stood in the receiving line with me. Her daughter remembered us both. But, it was time to do the really hard part.

"I have already been up to the casket. Do you want to go?"
"Yes, but come with me."
"It's going to be hard."
"Yes, but we must learn to bear these things."

I stated this with all sincerity. Who was I? Where was this strength coming from? I don't know. Now, reflecting on this, I was sounding like Chance Gardener who says, "Yes, Louise. I have seen it often. It happens to old people."

Then the shock. As always.

"I told you she had lost a lot of weight." D was right. The person in the casket was far different than my memory of an elderly, but still vital woman.

To lessen the shock, funeral services do all sorts of tricks to make the person appear less dead. Doesn't make sense, right? The design is to perhaps make the incomprehensible somehow acceptable. That's my best shot anyway.

We both stood in silence. D put her hand to her face and slowly shook her head in a silent disbelief.

Afterwards, I began to get hugs and hellos from familiar faces. Then it began to dawn on me: it doesn't matter if the priest isn't your favorite, church is about people. The priest can set the one and direction of a church, but the people remain steadfast and loyal to "their" church.

Her granddaughter sought us out and gave us a sweet hug. Seven years had transformed a little girl into a beautiful young woman. "I can't believe you remember me," she said without affectation. "Of course,” we both agreed, "You were playing piano more at the masses." Always a shy one, her granddaughter was the obvious apple of Mary's eye.

"I still remember the Christmas masses," she stated with a fondness. The 5:30 Christmas masses were designed for the kids. It was always a madhouse of clarinets, guitars, trumpets and the unmistakable timbre of children's voices, all impossibly out of sync and tune, but even the One on High would have to have found utterly charming.
* * * *

Soon, despite the terrible circumstances that brought them together, people began to do what they always do: socializing. The conversation level rose to a noticable level, people mulled about from group to group, mothers carried fussy infants on their hips, and it began to resemble a wedding rehearsal.

Was this sacrilege? No. It's what we are, what we do and how we try to comfort one another when we faced time and again with the inevitable and unchanging truth of life. We are not gods. Far from it. And whatever unseen forces that are directing our lives are not forthcoming with an explanation. But in this dilemma we find that we are not alone, that we are in accord with other people and it is the best solace we can hope for.

C.G. Jung: the best book ever

2011-07-13T13:12:00.000-04:00

Profoundly intelligent, highly educated, creative genius. This is Carl Jung.

When you have a creative life, even making that statement seems pretentious, the common wisdom is that you scamper around like a happy woodland creature with your head in the clouds (or up your arse) and every day is a childlike discovery. To declare yourself to be an artist, in the general sense of that term, is to invite derision. The common wisdom is that you are deluding yourself and that one day, you will grow up and see that all this has been nonsense. Americans in particular are generally mystified by two words: spirituality and artistry. If we cannot hang a dollar sign on it, then we don't get it. Unless we reach the heights of commercial success with our art, then we are talentless and all has been for naught. This is the prevailing attitude or at least an attitude I've rubbed up against more times than I care to reccount on a therapist's couch.

To speak about the creative experience and the sometimes other-worldliness aspects of it is to declare yourself a lunatic or a fool in some people's eyes. Better then to silently acknowledge this aspect of life than to waste time with those for whom this does not resonate. Or those who deem us silly or as I have heard countless times, "You're crazy." Great conditions under which to try to survive, let alone thrive, yes?

The world clamors to smother creativity and sometimes we renounce our own creative powers. I suspect that there is something in the human psyche that fears the unpredictable. My guess? The ape brain wants to kill the God part of us because it fears light; the light which could makes us accountable for our actions. After all, it's easier living in the now concerned only with the temporal physical needs of the body than to suspect or believe there may be something far richer beneath the surface of consciousness.
When we are young, we simply act without reflection. I didn't wonder why sitting in a tree and just watching the leaves dance was so wondrous. Or why the forces of nature seemed to be speaking in a language that was almost intelligible. Or even why music could elicit a sudden bolt of electricity up my spine and make my head feel like a thousand pins were dancing in it. There was innocence, a purity and a lack of self-consciousness that were the marks of an openness to the world about me. I had a desire to express myself without knowing why or what it meant. I didn't even know music would ultimately be my medium.

What I do know is that these experiences of creativity and subsequent world view are not lost when speaking to fellow musicians, writers or graphic artists. From the greatest to the least, it's as if we are all tuned to the same creative stream, a stream which I imagine is always available, infinite but ultimately mysterious.

What doth this have to do with Jung?

When I read Carl Jung's Memories, Dreams and Reflections, I was changed forever. That's how powerful this book was (is) to me. I certainly do not think that I come anywhere near this great man's artistry or intelligence. I am a pair of ragged claws...etc, but he speaks in such an eloquent way of the inner life. This is the life of the artist.
Here's an excerpt from the final chapter:

"As a child I felt myself to be alone, and I am still, because I know things and must hint at things which others apparently know nothing of, and for the most part do not want to know. Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible. The loneliness began with the experiences of my early dreams, and reached its climax at the time I was working on the unconscious. If a man knows more than others, he becomes lonely. But loneliness is not necessarily inimical to companionship, for no one is more sensitive to companionship than the lonely man, and companionship thrives only when each individual remembers his individuality and does not identify himself with others.

It is important to have a secret, a premonition of things unknown. It fills life with something impersonal, a numinosum. A man who has never experienced that has missed something important. He must sense that he lives in a world which in some respects is mysterious; that things happen and can be experienced which remain inexplicable; that not everything which happens can be anticipated. The unexpected and the incredible belong in this world. Only then is life whole. For me the world has from the beginning been infinite and ungraspable.

I have had much trouble getting along with my ideas. There was a daimon in me, and in the end its presence proved decisive. It overpowered me, and if I was at times ruthless it was because I was in the grip of the daimon. I could never stop at anything once attained. I had to hasten on, to catch up with my vision. Since my contemporaries, understandably, could not perceive my vision, they saw only a fool rushing ahead.

I have offended many people, for as soon as I saw that they did not understand me, that was the end of the matter so far as I was concerned. I had to move on. I had no patience with people—aside from my patients. I had to obey an inner law which was imposed on me and left me no freedom of choice. Of course I did not always obey it. How can anyone live without inconsistency?

For some people I was continually present and close to them so long as they were related to my inner world; but then it might happen that I was no longer with them, because there was nothing left which would link me to them. I had to learn painfully that people continued to exist even when they had nothing more to say to me. Many excited in me a feeling of living humanity, but only when they appeared within the magic circle of psychology; next moment, when the spotlight cast its beam elsewhere, there was nothing to be seen. I was able to become intensely interested in many people; but as soon as I had seen through them, the magic was gone. In this way I made many enemies. A creative person has little power over his own life. He is not free. He is captive and driven by his daimon.

“Shamefully A power wrests away the heart from us,

For the Heavenly Ones each demand sacrifice;

But if it should be withheld

Never has that led to good,”

says Holderlin.

This lack of freedom has been a great sorrow to me. Often I felt as if I were on a battlefield, saying, “Now you have fallen, my good comrade, but I must go on.” For “shamefully a power wrests away the heart from us.” I am fond of you, indeed I love you, but I cannot stay. There is something heart-rending about that. And I myself am the victim; I cannot stay. But the daimon manages things so that one comes through, and blessed inconsistency sees to it that in flagrant contrast to my “disloyalty” I can keep faith in unsuspected measure.

Perhaps I might say: I need people to a higher degree than others, and at the same time much less. When the daimon is at work, one is always too close and too far. Only when it is silent can one achieve moderation.

The daimon of creativity has ruthlessly had its way with me. The ordinary undertakings I planned usually had the worst of it—though not always and not everywhere. By way of compensation, I think, I am conservative to the bone. I fill my pipe from my grandfather’s tobacco jar and still keep his alpenstock, topped with a chamois horn, which he brought back from Pontresina after having been one of the first guests at that newly opened Kurort.

I am satisfied with the course my life has taken. It has been bountiful, and has given me a great deal. How could I ever have expected so much? Nothing but unexpected things kept happening to me. Much might have been different if I myself had been different. But it was as it had to be; for all came about because I am as I am. Many things worked out as I planned them to, but that did not always prove of benefit to me. But almost everything developed naturally and by destiny. I regret many follies which sprang from my obstinacy; but without that trait I would not have reached my goal. And so I am disappointed and not disappointed. I am disappointed with people and disappointed with myself. I have learned amazing things from people, and have accomplished more than I expected of myself. I cannot form any final judgment because the phenomenon of life and the phenomenon of man are too vast. The older I have become, the less I have understood or had insight into or known about myself.

I am astonished, disappointed, pleased with myself. I am distressed, depressed, rapturous. I am all these things at once, and cannot add up the sum. I am incapable of determining ultimate worth or worthlessness; I have no judgment about myself and my life. There is nothing I am quite sure about. I have no definite convictions—not about anything, really. I know only that I was born and exist, and it seems to me that I have been carried along. I exist on the foundation of something I do not know. In spite of all uncertainties, I feel a solidity underlying all existence and a continuity in my mode of being.

The world into which we are born is brutal and cruel, and at the same time of divine beauty. Which element we think outweighs the other, whether meaninglessness or meaning, is a matter of temperament. If meaninglessness were absolutely preponderant, the meaningfulness of life would vanish to an increasing degree with each step in our development. But that is —or seems to me—not the case. Probably, as in all metaphysical questions, both are true: Life is — or has — meaning and meaninglessness. I cherish the anxious hope that meaning will preponderate and win the battle.

When Lao-tzu says: “All are clear, I alone am clouded,” he is expressing what I now feel in advanced old age. Lao-tzu is the example of a man with superior insight who has seen and experienced worth and worthlessness, and who at the end of his life desires to return into his own being, into the eternal unknowable meaning. The archetype of the old man who has seen enough is eternally true. At every level of intelligence this type appears, and its lineaments are always the same, whether it be an old peasant or a great philosopher like Lao-tzu. This is old age, and a limitation. Yet there is so much that fills me: plants, animals, clouds, day and night, and the eternal in man. The more uncertain I have felt about myself, the more there has grown up in me a feeling of kinship with all things. In fact it seems to me as if that alienation which so long separated me from the world has become transferred into my own inner world and has revealed to me an unexpected unfamiliarity with myself."

Cooking with Walt and Jess!

2011-07-08T13:44:00.001-04:00

Walt and Jesse contemplate their next catastrophe.

"Any action, necessary or otherwise, generates repercussions. If the action is necessary, we can usually handle the repercussions. The Law of Unintended Consequences suggests that repercussions proliferate beyond what we are able to anticipate; and if our action is unnecessary, the consequences may well sweep us away." ~Robert Fripp

Talk about consequences.

I am speaking about AMC's Breaking Bad season 3, easily the best drama on TV, (season 4 begins July 17, 10 EST). All the main characters have to deal with the unintended consequences of their actions. To summarize: Walter White, the central character, needed extra cash because he was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. Being a chemist and seeing the ridiculous money that criminals made, he decided, after much rumination, to "cook ice." That is, to create meth. But, he needed a partner who knew the drug trade on the streets and he picked Jesse, an ex-student from his high school chemistry class, a true fuck-up drug dealer and user. Both of them are terribly flawed people who near redemption and then watch it slip away, or worse, explode like the dangerous chemicals used to make the profitable recreational poison.

Mention meth and an audience goes running. Nay, stay and be enthralled. This does not glorify meth, rather it shows the incredible talents of a solid cast as they deal with the intense blow-back and collateral damage of really bad choices; even if those choices were then deemed "necessary" and now have become obligations due to the really dangerous individuals of the Mexican drug cartel. It's a mess, but you can't stop watching.

The writing and directing are impeccable. The best is on TV right now, folks. Breaking Bad is a knockout.

In the Weeds

2011-07-07T10:44:00.000-04:00

Ms. Parker, aka Nancy Botwin, searches for the storyline.

As we enter season seven of Weeds, I am of the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, this delightful Showtime series has already reached its zenith and is now wondering what the hell direction to take.

I am only two shows into the season and may well change my mind, but think of the Sopranos. There were some seasons that were distinct bummers as to action (somebody gotta get whacked, right?) and certainly story. The characters, without a doubt fully formed and fully known, seemed to be running in circles.

No sooner is Nancy Botwin out of prison and she is involved in criminal activity.

Really? She didn't learn anything?

Color me skeptical.

2011-07-05T14:38:00.000-04:00

I am sorry that you had such a shitty mother. I'm also sorry that the justice system failed you.

I'm so angry and so sorry, but this was all about you. At times, we forgot that.

rest in peace

When is a Crim Not a Crim?

2011-07-04T14:09:00.000-04:00

Ade, T-Lev and Pat have a summer camp this year!

A few months ago, guitar wizard and ex-Crim member, Adrian Belew, expressed a desire for the old 80's KC lineup to reform and tour. Without judgement from this blogger, his idea was met by half of the band saying nay to this reformation. Drummer Bill Bruford wasn't kidding when he said he was retired and Robert asked if they could play the music as well as they did twenty years ago (Fripp has since retired from public performance). That left Ade, of course, and Tony Levin.

What to do? Easy: Don't call it King Crimson, but play some of the repertoire for hungry Crimsonites such as your humble blogger.

From Adrian Belew's blog:

Monday, June 20, 2011

A Celebration of King Crimson Music and Much More...
remember when I mentioned something special
was being planned for our next tour?
well, here it is:

the Two Of A Perfect Trio tour.
the show will go like this:

stickmen (tony levin, markus rueter, and pat mastelotto)
will play a set of their music
then
the adrian belew power trio (me, julie slick, and tobias ralph)
will play a set of my music
then

tony, pat, and I will play a few crimson songs as a trio
then
both trios will take the stage for a glorious set of
king crimson music including pieces from the double trio era.
two drummers, two stick players, a bassist, and a guitarist, YOW!
what a sound that's gonna be.
the dates should be listed here soon.
2011 marks my (and tony's) 30-year anniversary
of being in king crimson, something I'm very proud of.
this once in a lifetime show is a perfect way to celebrate.

When you retire from public performance, be sure to have faithful rabbit to love.

From the Fripp diary (search around to find original post):
This is Robert commenting on a fan's post in the forum about possible players (just coincidence) with some Crim music:

"A Double Trio of Adrian Belew, Dweezil Zappa, Pat Mastelotto, Terry Bozzio, Trey Gunn and Tony Levin would persuade me to part with my own hard-earned pay (the small proportion of which eventually and actually arrives) but it would not be King Crimson. That disturbs me not-at-all; rather, it serves to excite me: the formation would have the freedom to discover, and be, who it is."

Each member of a band contributes to the overall sound and sensibility of a group. I know this firsthand. From my perspective, there is no KC with RF. He anchors, guides and senses what is enfolding. Perhaps, to use an awkward metaphor, he is the lightning rod that gathers the seen and the unseen. On a practical level, perhaps he is quality control.

Adrian, Tony and Pat are incredible musicians and I am glad that some form of KC rep will still be performed live.

Not Bad

2011-06-29T21:37:00.000-04:00

Imagine greater than lame Sci-Fy channel

I had seriously low expectations for this series on TNT. Every time I get excited about alien invasion stuff, I am sorely dissappointed. ABC's V was such a bore that I quit watching. Evidently they did too as the show went off the air and then to reappear later. Too late. You lost momentum.

To all networks, be ye large or small: some of us out here in TV land are intelligent viewers. Quit thinking we are stupid. Thank you for your kind attention to this matter.

Everybody wants to follow HBO and their success with The Sopranos. A series brings in not only loyal viewers, but viewership can grow exponentially. Say hello True Blood.

Babe-a-licious factor is provided by Moon Bloodgood. I ain't making that up.

Noah Wyle (ER heartthrob) is the anchor. He does pretty well so far.

Alien critters are two types: mechs or mechanical bipeds with nasty weaponry and arthropod-like "skitters" which are truly ugly, complete with slimy skin.

There is a slight nod to the zombie genre as human children are enslaved by a "harness" which is attached to the spinal column and makes them obedient to the aliens via telekinesis.

You haven't missed much and you can probably watch full episodes on the official site, but don't delay too long as these don't stay up long.

Rent This Flick

2011-06-28T14:23:00.000-04:00

Rooster Cogburn: That didn't pan out.

Rented True Grit last night and was really impressed.

Jeff Bridges doesn't play a character- he inhabits the body of another person. Think about how few actors do that. Fine actors are a rarity, like a Brando or a Rod Steiger. Bridges is one among the best.

Yes, the supporting cast is terrific (Hailee Steinfeld as the 14-year-old headstrong Mattie Ross is a standout as well as Josh Brolin), but we wait for Bridges to anchor, to move and to make us laugh.

Don't miss this one.

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 13

2011-06-23T14:31:00.000-04:00

"I'm on the outside, looking inside
What do I see?
Much confusion
Disillusion
All around me."

"Been there, done that
Been there don't wanna go back"

After I was finally weeded out, that is to say I was gently never called back to play in the last band, freedom was mine. I just didn't want out of bands, rather a compete break from all band/bar musical activity was what the doctor ordered.

I even begrudgingly did weddings-those gigs with lucrative paychecks. I hated them. What I loved was hours spent composing music in perfect quiet and isolation. Quiet wasn't always possible unless I went to UC and holed up in a practice room. For most of those years, the church and the UC guitar ensemble got my full attention. Composition was my passion. It felt like a sacred calling.
Of course, I kept an eye on the newspaper and read what bands were playing. I knew who was out and playing. Though part of me wanted to be in the game, the memory of the hassle was enough to keep me far, far away.

Evidently, my guitar playing replacement in the last band (not Velvets, to be clear) was not, shall we say, as open-minded or as willing to learn from someone who was clearly the bandleader. The hot seat I left was at times too hot and tensions were high at rehearsal. The guitarist quit. I savored this story like a fine vintage. Oh yeah. You mean all the subtext that I thought was going on was in fact going on? All the implications were a huge massage to my ego, but that didn't make me want to get back out there.
I relished my weekends free of noise, arguments, power struggles, the constant raising of volume, lugging equipment and all the unpleasant elements that outsiders never see about groups. A cup of coffee, a Mac, manuscript paper, pencils and a guitar: these were the elements of bliss.

Coming Out of Exile

"Count" Weg, Nelson and the curmudgeon stand on the same stage again.

Being horrible at remembering dates, I am going to guess that this exile lasted about 15 years ('94 to 2009), give or take. Gigs were played, the guitar ensemble did public performances as well as the Dynamic Duo (flute and guitar), I just stayed out the freelance scene. It took my upcoming 50th birthday to move me out of inertia and finally realize that enough time had passed and all wounds had healed.

More importantly, Craig and I had begun a dialogue, which was awkward at first, but then we both realized that perhaps this shit was all not worth getting excited about. He had been a steady father of three children and a good husband. Both of our lives were filled with responsibility and steadiness, it was time to forgive and forget. Greg and I got back in contact. The ground was set.

Walk the Mine Field Again

I have to admit that the first time I stepped into Live Mix Studios. it felt really weird. A lot of uncomfortable feelings came back. The place had all the familiar hardware of a drum kit, cables strung everywhere, and instruments galore. Though this usually excites me because of the musical possibilities, a queasiness was in my guts. It's one thing to declare that the past is the past, quite another to embrace it completely.

Disagreements? What disagreements?

Three Velvets met to discuss a setlist. We scribbled some tune titles from the ancient past on a legal pad, but in true Velvet form, we worked more on finishing Al's Pusser's Rum bottle than any real planning. And finish it we did. God love us. It's hard to get uptight when the world's smoothest nectar is flowing free to all at the table.

While I had forgiveness and goodwill in my heart, I was hoping that I did not meet any stone walls after all these years, but it seems that everyone thought that getting together for the old man's 5-0 was cool. All of the band made it (save the difficult one) and atmosphere was highly energized and positive.

Once we actually got playing underway, it felt good. We had a blast and I knew why we still had affection for each other all these years. The music we made together and the experiences making it created a solid bond that remains some 16 or 17 years after the fact. I cannot speak for each and every member, but for me, there is an unbreakable bond, despite any petty differences. We ain't all in love with each other, but there is a mutual respect that remains today. You can't go through all that and not have it leave a permanent impression.
In a sense, the Velvets just scattered and fragmented into other groups. That may seem like a self-centered way of seeing your fellow musicians, but I played a gig last night and it was four V's plus one. Here we are, still playing, even though the instrumentation is somewhat different, it's four out of the original nine.

I didn't hear the comments, but evidently some favorable comments about the old band were shared. While that pleases me beyond measure, I am not interested in merely recreating the past. That would be a huge mistake. The V moniker remains, but does not limit our exploring and exploring we will go.

Last night, after two gigs, I shared a pint with Veeb Dave. It was a pleasure to sit and chat in person instead of emailing. "What I like about this band is that I'm not sure where we're going next." Hell yeah. As long as it's creative, vibrant and keeps me on my toes, count me in.

Just give me two measures before we start.

The Velvet Papers, Part 12

2011-06-20T14:30:00.001-04:00

The Regatta 1988-Al, Dave, Bryan, Nelson and a long haired dude

"Until you've seen this trash can dream come true.
You stand at the edge while people run you through. "

"Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot"

I need to write all this down so that I don't forget it or when I do, I have some record of it all. Also, there is something very satisfying and healing about coming to terms with your past.

Preamble

Saturday night, late, the phone rings. It’s CR, of course. We stay in touch every week or two weeks. After discussions of things of a domestic nature, the topic goes to the old band.

“That was a strange band. We had an identity crisis. We didn’t know it, but the audience did.”

Huh? Of what doth he speake?

Rarely doth fellow Veeb "CR" Romeo wax nostalgic about the old days (he of the self-imposed "15 year musical exile" after the breakup), but this conversation was filled with velvety reminiscences. The value of these conversations is two-fold: his perspective on this stuff differs radically from mine (often shockingly) and we laugh like two drunken teenagers.

The Bacardi Limon cocktails kicked in when when this question came: “Could you be Johnny Velvet for an entire evening?” Well, knock me over with a parasol, why don't you?

He’s talking about having a party at his home in NC with specially invited guests with music provided by a small gathering of V’s dressed in full regalia and in full character. I said that it would be tough because the audience would have to be right. No teenagers or kids running around wondering why daddy and his strange friends are making fools of themselves. That would be a lounge buzzkill. Plus, doing Johnny all night might feel weird, fake and a just a little more than crazy.

He was not aware that I had been committing to blog a history of the band, nor that now I was getting towards the parts that were more Johnny related. “It’s one thing to do parody and another to become it.” He nailed it again. How does CR know so much about any Velvet activity when he lives four hours away? I swear it’s uncanny. I have lost count of how many times he’s called shortly after a rehearsal. “He’s almost psychic,” said one V bro. Yep. I have no explanation for it. He is plugged in still.

Who Are You?

Back to our tale: I was Johnny for a while. Yep. Hard to imagine now, but just as the band took over everything, being JV became a full-time job. Nice work if you can get it, right?

To define JV for the uninitiated, imagine every stereotypical lounge lizard and add some Elvis and Vegas, plus a radiant narcissism. There’s your basic Johnny Velvet. This was all played for a gag. Like all characters, he was a combination of people, real and imaginary. Take CR’s loungey keyboard playing, a splash of Bill Murray, one of our friend’s divorced dad’s overtly hound dog lifestyle and Johnny V was born.

It got to a point where people called me Johnny everywhere I went. It didn’t help that I was living a reckless life, one maybe typical of a young nocturnal bar musician, of staying out practically until dawn, ignoring all sensible diet choices and drinking way too much and too frequently. The attention I loved. Who wouldn’t? I played it out full-tilt like the rock star I believed I was and it was a blast. I was lost in a caricature of my own creation.

It just got to be too much.

I hit a low point one summer when the constant gigging and resultant partying was just too much. I remember this depression coming over me and I just wanted to hide from it all. I hid as much as I could in the basement, lost in composing music. I wrote a lot of strange pieces that were a reflection of my total burnout. I needed an emotional outlet and anchor far away from band-bar world. I remember listening to Brian Eno and George Crumb-worlds away from what I was doing.

Bars can be loads of fun when you don't have to be in them all the time. Otherwise, you see them as the loud, chaotic, shallow shitholes that they truly are. There were times when it took a great effort to get up on stage and act out the part. The only saving grace was the music. Music can survive and get through even to the burned out musician. It can be the lifeline to something meaningful and not just danceable wallpaper to hookups and overindulging in alcohol.

It Ran Its Course, OK?

The mighty, but soft spoken drummer Richie Stewart

A couple of things happened that began the VH1-Behind-the-music-like breakup of the group. Tito left because Dow Chemical bought out Carbide and his job was no more. As I said, Tito was someone everyone respected. A friend of mine said recently, "He was a man and you all were just boys. You respected him like a father figure." Richie Stewart was an excellent replacement. A sweet, sweet guy and a drummer of reserve, taste and chops when needed.

We all used to pass around the bass, but Bryan was added as full-time bass player. He had to be a quick study and put up with the oh-so-casual Velvet way of rehearsal. He recalled that at a gig, he inquired as to the key of the song and was told, "Don't worry. By the time the sound reaches the back wall and comes back, it will probably be in key." Interesting theory of acoustics, n'est-ce pas?

Then CR met his future wife and just like the Lennon-Yoko-McCartney story, the center of the band began to fall out. The first warning sign was when CR arrived late (nothing unusual there) to a wedding reception at Edgewood Country Club. He had an after work party to go to and we agreed to set up his keyboard so that all he had to do was roll in and play. He was so late that one of us said something, probably me, and he plainly stated that he didn't want to do this and would have rather stayed at the party (where no doubt time would have been spent with his newly found love).

It's a normal process. It's called growing up, but I couldn't accept that from CR. If he wasn't interested, then the bottom was falling out.

I cannot say that I wasn't difficult either. I was headed down the wedding aisle as well and my thoughts were often elsewhere, but I am not here to accuse, incriminate, throw stones or any other such thing. The band breaking up was not easy for me. The worst result was that CR and me didn't speak to each other for quite a while. There was tension in other relationships as well.

The band played at my wedding, sans CR of course, but nonetheless, I sensed things were falling apart.

The Next Gig Please

You have to realize at a certain point that musicians are mercenary beings. We have to be because loyalty doesn't sign the check and the world always assumes that we are happy woodland creatures who just so love to play that we do it all for free. Adding to that, we undervalue our "product" and the people who hire us often try to get us on the cheap.

I was a feeling a diva-like when I realized that the group of musicians known collectively as the VBs would not stop playing, but rather reform as another group. There was some underhandedness that came to my attention that really made a clear line in the divide for me. That was a hard,sharp slap to me. "Brother" was in name only, then. Fine. Players gotta play. I get that.

After being adrift for a while, I joined a quartet with Kai (a super bass player and musician), Greg from the Veebs and a drummer named Chris. We called ourselves the Wine Consultants. We were the house band at The Blue Parrot. It was good group and we did some cool music, but after the VBs, but after a while, it fell short on the fun factor. Plus, the owner was a guy who tried to micro-manage us. He wasn't all there mentally either. We ended up with a bunch of Jimmy Buffet songs that felt like a chore to do. I hated "Fins," "Cheeseburger," and all those fake-ass white Caribbean tunes of the Parrot Head catalog.

After being totally free, I felt like I was in prison sometimes in that band. I was told not to say certain things on the mic and in general, all the wild unpredictability that was the Velvets was suppressed. I felt like there were two bosses in the group and I was in between. I have never been a good soldier, following orders and accepting a place in the rear. It goes against my nature. If the music is happening, I'll stand behind a screen in the back, but if not, then we got troubles.

I never want to be in a group where I am just a run-of-the-mill competent guitar player playing the standard rock stuff with the supposed look and decorum of a "professional." Many professionals play with such predictable restraint that I find my attention drifting. I want to see something real, not just rehearsed chops.

The Wine Consultants ran their course. Our house band gig came to an abrupt halt when Greg booked us at another bar. The Blue Parrot owner thought were exclusive to him and we thought otherwise. A nasty call from the bar owner's wife sealed the deal. The WC's were officially freelance and after a gig or two, were out of a steady job. That was one smooth move on our part.

I got into another group and the same deal. This time I played "guitarist in the hot seat" and learned an endless list of original tunes by the band leader. He and the singer had dreams of writing songs for Nashville-the mythical place where the golden road to stardom is paved with conformity. With this group, it felt like we rehearsed far more than we ever played.

The last memory I had of this band was at Cheers (now Bar 101) during the Regatta. I was in the corner, by the window, and I would catch myself staring out of it. I wanted out of the band, out of the business and out of public performance. I wanted out of music.

I got my wish. I dropped out.

Them Wedding Bells

2011-06-14T23:51:00.000-04:00

The world hath gone strange indeed.

"As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment" ~ TS Eliot

Somebody Gotta Do the Work

People believe that music just happens. There's no planning, no practicing, no thought, it all just appears like glitter and unicorns.The Dynamic Duo played a wedding yesterday but, it wasn't me that had to break a sweat. That fell to Li-Li.

My partner in the nuptial biz, Li-Li (flute, piano, voice), was going loony over The Lord's Prayer by Albert Malotte; a perennial favorite. She got the call to play this piano piece a week before the ceremony, so you can imagine the whirling, grinding machinations of trying to master a piano piece she hadn't played in years. Plus, the stress of arranging and rehearsing with the singer (a friend of the family), then attending the wedding rehearsal. All the while, I was chillaxing at home. I got it tough, baby.

The toughest part sometimes is just figuring out how to get the equipment to the right place without bodily injury. Stairs + two fifty pound amps = pain, property destruction and Lortab. Wait a minute, the Lortab part of that sounds good. But, I digress...

I knew she would be suffering from "can't see the forest for the trees" syndrome, that her mind would be on performing this one piece while our main duty was to provide flute and guitar music before the wedding and a few pieces after. So, in light of knowing my partner's focus of her angst, I set about organizing every pre-wedding piece in a neat little setlist and offered to give her a break by playing some solo guitar pieces.

Good thing I did that. We barely had a lull in our pre-wedding music set as the church quickly filled. Some 200 guests were invited and by the time 5:30 rolled around, we had a full house.

Then Why the Shakes, Mister Guru?

Though I preach meditation, preparation and relaxation, still nerves can still upset balance. It's laughable because I can watch my right hand become off-balance because of the forearm's creeping tension and yet I remain objective in the process. It's kind of like watching the wheels fall off your car in slow motion, but you feel no sense of crashing. You are watching all this with a frustrated resignation. This is something that has manifested itself with greater magnitude over the years or maybe it's just that I have become far more aware of the issue. Regardless, it comes and goes.

What helped is that the combination of my amp behind me and the house system really made us sound full and a great tone. There is something almost transcendental about getting the right sound out of electronic equipment. If your sound sucks, it can throw your whole game off. Nothing makes you happy.

When I play weddings, I am all about doing a good job, but they all have become a blur to me. All the same players again and again: the rowdy friends of the groom, the impossibly manicured bridesmaids, the nervous mom and dad, the groom is usually a nice guy and the bride may or not have even noticed us at all. It's like a repeating television episode only with ever so slight variations. It's a fog with a nice paycheck at the end.

As we headed home, I could tell a great weight was lifted from Li-Li's shoulders. She was a wreck from stressing and now it was all behind her. I'm sure she crashed both physically and emotionally after the gig. Hell, I was feeling a bit worn myself. Call it age. All those seemingly perfect young people can wear an old curmudgeon's self-esteem down. You can call it self-pity, but wait until you get there and see how the ride feels to you.

Old T.S. was right. The world is indeed a stranger place as we age. Ironically, I feel that I have firmly established my place in it, but yet there are times I feel estranged from it. It is both familiar and empty, rich and flavorless, filled with divine mystery and the dulled primal impulses of the terminally thoughtless and ignorant. In short, it's always been the same; only our perception of it changes.

Gee...I ought to play weddings more often.

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 11

2011-06-02T23:04:00.001-04:00

The Latino Triumvirate in full groove

“And then it all went horribly wrong.”

~every VH1’s Behind the Music episode

One More for the Camel’s Back

The Velvets had one more member to add- a nomadic percussionist named Nery or “Nedy” as it became. Nedy introduced himself at a few gigs and immediately began to pitch himself as a player of the congas. He was very persistent and had no trouble singing his own praises. We were hesitant as that would make the band bursting at eight players, but once we heard him play, the deal was done. Now we had a Latino triumvirate and they forged a solid rhythm section. That was both a good thing and a bad thing.

What? Trouble in happy Velvet memories? Really? Get to the parts where things get fucked up.

It was a good thing because Tres Latinos gave us a distinctive sound. When they locked, the groove became light as air or a bone throbbing jet pulse. It was a joy to watch and exciting to be a part of on stage, but the bad part was that the balance began to shift. The Latino material became so dominant that it began to alienate certain members of the audience. Confidants would be blunt: “That’s not how you used to play! I hate all that endless Latin shit.” What do you do? I would try to write sets that were more balanced, but inevitably Nelson or Tito would call a hopping merengue and I for one couldn’t resist. Another thing is that some factions of the Latin three didn’t understand the lounge aspect anymore. I would get a look like, “What the hell are we doing? We’re better players than that.”

Success Doth Monsters of Us All Make

At first, Nery seemed like a dream. He was funny and so cool, but success brings out the monster in us all. The trouble with our new percussionist was that he was a super player and he knew it. He was a diva, in short. During our rock material, he would walk offstage like he didn’t want to be a part of something he didn’t respect. He referred to our lead guitarist at one point as “musical diarrhea.” If he had any bad comments about me, I never heard them, but negativity was not something we used to dealing with. Believe it or not, we had some issues, but mostly we got along famously.

Nobody liked the load-out at the end of the night and frequently Nery (and others) would blow it off. Can’t say I blame them as who wouldn’t want to linger and party in the afterglow of a gig? Or go home? Consequently, we began to fine people a small amount, like five bucks, if they didn’t help. Back then, what did we take home after 12 hours of labor at a bar gig? 40 bucks? 50? Big F-ing whoop. Still, it raised some issues.

At some point, Nery got into it with somebody. So much so that CR, a man who rarely ever raised his voice, stepped in with, “We don’t talk to each other like that.” I began to weigh the value of the Nedster in the group.

Who’s Da Boss? Do You Boys Write Your Own Songs?

My stepfather once told me that he liked the group because it didn’t appear that any one person was in charge. If only it were that simple.

Though we were fairly democratic, I always felt that Craig our de facto leader. He had no ego musically speaking. His on stage announcements were usually few and self-deprecating. Clearly, he had no agenda to be a star and so I think we all respected his opinion not only for those reasons, but because he was more than fair. Slow as hell, but no hidden agenda. Tito might snap us into shape, but it was Craig’s unwavering state of casualness that led the group through tough moments. The goofs never seemed to rouse him nor did the successes ever get more than subdued acknowledgement. He embodies lounge after all.

Being in a band has almost nothing to do with your favorite bands or songs, it’s what fits. Sounds obvious, but no so. One of the songs suggested was Behind Blue Eyes by The Who. Now that is a great song, but we couldn’t do that with any conviction. I smelled disaster. Case in point: one night we did Twist and Shout at the Levee and when we finished, there was silence. I remember looking down at a fellow musician who had a look of, “I’m afraid I can’t help you. It sucked.” I have never felt so embarrassed in my life. A fun song to play, but it wasn’t right for us. Any subsequent performances were felt with great trepidation; never wanting to repeat that terrible silence.

Originals came from the three founding members and a few from Tito’s father. Some songs got instant approval and others went nowhere. It’s the nature of a band. In order to get a song approved, it had to pass the suck test. A tepid reaction was a good sign that you might as well hang it up. Also, bringing an original song to a group is a tough thing because if rejected, you feel like it’s a personal rejection. Your songs are like your children: you love them equally.

My acid test for my songs was always a private session with CR first. I presented a tune called Wild Tonight (in hindsight not my best effort) and he broke out laughing. I pleaded my case that it was not funny, but had a good groove. Needless to say, that song never made the cut. If I could get him and Weg, then the battle was half over.

I was happy that some of my songs made it into the band’s repertoire. When a song is called out and makes the set list each time, you know it’s a keeper. More importantly, those songs reflected my real inner life at that time. I craved and loved my freedom. I was free from school obligations and the restrictions of classical music. As I have stated before, the classical guitar (Thanks, Segovia) was considered a legitimate classical instrument, but it has no place in an orchestra. I wasn’t interested in winning the hearts of blue hairs and snobs; I wanted a much wider audience to know my music. Besides, when you sing your own songs, there is an emotional catharsis that is unlike any other musical experience. Besides, it’s cheaper than therapy.

I never tried to come in with a tune completely prearranged. Mostly because I was lazy and “documenting a whim” as CR said one time. Better in most cases to let the band do the arranging. It’s smart on several levels: collective arranging can make a simple song a better song, plus everybody puts their individual stamp on it and therefore it becomes theirs in a sense. No longer just “my” song, but ours.

Songwriting can occur without any predetermination. There was one occasion where I was very late for a rehearsal with just CR and Greg. By the time I got there, they had written this ultra cool jam, but there were no lyrics. I told them I could write some lyrics. Sure enough, with a rough demo as a guide, I wrote some very stupid lyrics about what else? Getting wasted. The song, Trashed Again, while the lyrics were basically throwaway and I'd have a tough time singing them seriously today, had a great dance groove and became a Velvet standard. I thrive on collaboration.

Fishes Out of Water

At the Glass, the Levee and Rio Grande, we had a good time. Other places, not so much. Another problem with popularity is that you get hired for the wrong gigs. There was any number of times when another bar would hire us and the crowd would basically ignore us. I remember playing at Griff’s and the atmosphere was a dud from the minute we walked in. I’m not sure what they wanted, but it sure wasn’t us. I do remember a fabulous version of Ruben Blades’ Caina being performed. I was learning how to play salsa bass and it was the first time I felt the groove (which is on the offbeat the entire time). Again, when a crowd ignored us, I went into circle-the-wagons mode and concentrated on making the band happy. This also taught me that our appeal was not universal. For example, we would never please the average Bud drinking, work-a-day motherfucker who wanted to hear “Skinnerd” or “Hank.” As a guitarist, I always rebelled against the notion that that music was some kind of gold standard by which all musicianship was/is measured. The Velvets freed me from that dire prison as well.

Weddings are the kiss ass of gigs. I remember a wedding where grandpa wanted to hear nothing but swing. Jesus! Chart after chart of Satin Doll, Fly Me to the Moon and all the standards- that’s seemed like all we played. One, two, three swing tunes weren’t enough as he and grandma wanted to cut a rug. The annoying looks we got when we played anything else! Luckily we had Dave and a couple of guys who could read charts and at least make the tunes happen. We could have said a flat “no,” but weddings are a different animal. It’s not really about reaching an audience, but being a rather being a handy live jukebox. That’s why weddings pay so well. We are your whores for two hours. Let us entertain you, but you is gonna pay for that right.

Country clubs are about the same only people drink more quickly and at least try to have a decent time. An evening at Berry Hills Country Club may start out with everyone chatting in groups on the dance floor and basically ignoring us and it might well end with people doing a congo line. Regardless, we would do our thing and hope we seduced people with our rhythms. That evening turned out well and watching the VHS years later, I was pleased with our performance. Unfortunately, I let a schizophrenic (no joke) film much of the evening, so you can imagine some of the camera work is quite “guerilla.”

I once heard someone say, “We’re a bit intimidated by your music. We don’t know how to dance to it.” I told her, “No one is judging you. Just have a good time.” We could burn, we could crash and burn, but mostly we were all about the good time.

Next: Bound to Fall and Who is This Johnny Guy?

Cut Me Once Again

2011-05-25T12:09:00.000-04:00

Now you know why sinus infections are a bitch.

"Gloom, despair, and agony on me Deep, dark depression, excessive misery If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all Gloom, despair, and agony on me"

Well, kids, it seems the medical community has found a new plaything: me.

I had escaped any surgery my whole life save for some impacted wisdom teeth that were removed in high school. But evidently when I hit my fifties, it was time to play catch-up. Catching up in a big way. Two heart caths, an appendectomy and an open heart surgery later, time for the nose to be invaded via sinus surgery. Yay!

The Mayo Clinic radiologist had reviewed my CAT-PET scan and said there was evidence of a polyp in my left sinus. It was time to visit one of my favorites physicians, Dr. Goins. Dr. Goins is one of the friendliest, most down-to-earth doctors I've had the pleasure to know. I love his enthusiasm. He speaks plainly without condescension nor brusqueness.

After a quick X-ray, he came in with the pictures and told me not only did I have a mass or polyp in my left sinus, but it was huge. He couldn't understand why I complained about the right side being stuffed up all the time. He asked about headaches and I replied no. I'm a curious patient. I have things wrong with me, but I am asymptomatic.

You'd figure I'd be used to this view by now.

Fast forward to yesterday at the One Day Surgery Center where this dude was in gown waiting for the show to begin. Or rather, when the happy, calming meds were going to be administered. Ah, Versed, how I grown to know you.

I was jittery, so I tried for some TV coma on the form of the In Session channel, formerly Court TV. It was tedious and slow enough to take some of the edge off, but inevitably nothing really calms you down.

Dr. Goins popped in to tell me that "We are going to do a lot of work on you today." He was his usual cheerful self when I asked about the pain afterward. He just told me that most patients experienced a "burning sensation" and to later expect some congestion. Ok and off he went.

The anesthesiologist was fairly business-like tossing off words of comfort: "Since you've had heart surgery combined with your age, you are considered high risk for anesthesia." Gee, and I thought things were going to be a breeze. Thanks for that. I feel confident now.

Happy meds were delivered and I felt that special dizzy rush and then the mild mellowness kick in. You know it's time to go when happy meds are delivered.

Off to Never-Never Land

A cheerful woman has put the proverbial anesthesia mask on me. "This is just oxygen, honey."
"OK" comes my muffled reply. Then the oxygen begins to have a funny taste and smell to it. You know that the lights are going out soon.
"Think of somewhere that you like going. Where do you like to go for vacation?"
"The Outer Banks, North Carolina."
"Oh yes, that's beautiful."
I watch as the white ceiling tiles do a slightly wavy dance and then I'm out.

When I wake up after surgery, I know where I am, what has happened and I'm glad as hell that the whole damn thing is over. Two rather chatty nurses seem happy to see me (or perhaps they are happy that another patient is out of the woods?) and the two of them begin to sing the praises of my hair. Huh?
"Oh yes, you have beautiful hair. It's so thick. And there's no gray in it!" While a discussion of my hair wouldn't normally make me uncomfortable, I am wondering the big question: when can I leave?

The Hard Part Comes Next

You know how you bump your knee and you don't really fell the full impact until later? That's surgery in a nutshell: the worst comes after. Goins operated on my nose for 1.5 hours. He opened both and removed this and that. It was a mess. You know there's going to be hell to pay.

The usual discharge papers dance and endless instructions from the nurse, blah, blah, blah and soon we are free.

I'm hungry as hell and we decide to dine in Sahara. The food is heavenly, but there's that pesky blood streaming from my nose that makes me a less than ideal dining partner. I looked like a freak with a huge piece of gauze beneath my nose. In fact, I must leave and go out to the car to get another gauze.

"You look like Adolph Hitler." I had shaped the gauze into a square and taped it directly below my nose. Attractive, yes?

The Afterglow

In short, misery.

I have felt like a metal band is around my head, squeezing ever tighter. The pain behind my eyeballs is the worst and that's where I reach for the pain meds. That's why he wrote the script, after all. My nose has been impossibly blocked. Lately, this has opened up, but I still sound like I am recovering from a cold. Food tastes really off, except for sweets and even those taste cheap to me.

I'm sure that after all is said and done that this will greatly improve my breathing. I just assumed that everyone used a Neti pot daily, used nasal sprays when desperate or just accepted the fact that one nostril is constantly obstructed. It's amazing what we will accept.

Above all, I'm sick of all this surgery. I was gaining momentum from my graduation from Cardiac Rehab and had just gotten into the groove at Heart Fit. Now, I have to regain lost ground.

Oh well. I'll do what I always do: dig my heels in, whine like a baby all the while, and be solidly stubborn in my refusals to give up as ever. That's me. Part winner, part whiner and mostly, just happy not to be on a goddam surgeon's table.

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 10

2011-05-19T23:40:00.000-04:00

Velvis is IN the Building

“Defending himself against his critics, (author)Albert Goldman told an interviewer: "People were scandalized by my use of humor and ridicule in (the Elvis biography). Elvis was someone they were accustomed to taking in a very sentimental way. But I feel he was a figure of the most bizarre and grotesque character. . . . “

After reading this account of Elvis, my view of him changed forever. Apparently Goldman began to dislike the Elvi God (Andy Kaufmann’s moniker) as the research grew and maybe he should have discontinued the work, but nevertheless, fact or fiction, I gobbled the juicy stories of excess up like crack candy. I began to share these stories with CR and Greg. One of us suggested that maybe we should go live with Velvis; an out of control, delusional, musical demi-god, kinda-sorta tribute to the excesses of The King. Think a coke fueled, pill poppin’ John Belushi gone Elvis and you have Velvis. The maniac in the suit? You guessed it.

We worked out the tunes, worked in some skits and booked (where else?) Le Cantina for New Year’s Eve.
The rented white Vegas style jumpsuit I stuffed with pillows for that extra bloated look, donned cheap black wig with sideburns that were like curly fries most of the time, scarves and the requisite dark glasses. The whole thing was a mess from top to bottom: precisely what we were going for.

Velvis was the second set, so I had to do the costume change in the horrid bathroom. The glamour of show business aside, I enlisted the help of a female friend to transform me into a hunka hunka bloated ballistic missile. I cannot tell you that amount of adrenaline that was pumping through me when I heard the opening for Also Sprach and then the drum fanfare for C. C. Rider. The band kicked into the tune and out a runnin’ I came. Karate choppin’, pill spillin’, maniac Velvis was in the building.

CC Rider went real quickly as all opening numbers do. I believe we moved into a slow number; the classic Can’t Help Falling in Love. We since this was Velvis, the lyrics got a small rewrite:

Well, I can’t help falling in love with ME. The “me” had a subtle sledgehammer accent.

I tortured that ballad with some really wobbly vibrato just for extra “mock” appeal and I know some people were getting it. However, there was one very drunk girl who kept heckling me. I don’t think she was trying to put the act down, she was just really feeling “happy.” Velvis was explaining why he had such an extended public absence with, “Ladies and gennlemen, I put on a little weight.” She yelled, “No shit!” At one point, I took off my sunglasses, looked at her, and then looked at the crowd, all the while smiling trying to indicate that this is parody, lady. She wasn’t getting it or too drunk to care, so back in Velvis character I yelled, “Back off, baby. The King is in the house.” Don’t fuck with the King. Even if it’s a cheap and bad parody.

One planned skit involved a lady coming up to get an autograph and Velvis, sensing a threat, began some spastic karate moves. The band yelled at Velvis, “Hey, she just wants an autograph. Chill out!” Velvis mumbled his apologies and gave the autograph while she stole his scarf.

The Cantina’s burgers were the original heart cloggers as they probably were equal to about five Whoppers. They was dino-huge. During the guitar solo of Jailhouse Rock, Velvis couldn’t wait and started seriously chomping on a mondo chee-burga. When Greg’s solo ran its burning course, I came back in with a verse with mouth stuffed full of food. If that didn’t send the message home, I swung it round and round al la Pete Townsend with burger flying off on music stand. After the song was over, Velvis eyed the aerial burger with some lust: “That burger sure look good. Thank-ya-very-much.” Ah, you just get quality entertainment like that anymore.

Velvis Does the Glass

We drug the Velvi God out one more time at the Empty Glass for Halloween. The Veebs did their “regular” Latino-rock-lounge first set and then I scurried out to the alley where a van was parked that served as a changing area. It was the same tired white jumpsuit stuffed with pillows, el cheapo horrible wig, etc. I remember telling Bwana Shawn, local DJ and all-star VB fan, that I didn’t want to do it. “Let’s go somewhere, seriously.” Repeatedly my offer of escape was refused and I was told the old adage of the show must go on. My mantra: Adrenaline and nerves, adrenaline and nerves. Nothing helped, not even drinking.

The band started with Also Sprach and then kicked into CC Rider. Velvis charged in with no less than three, count ‘em, body guards all looking like Secret Service. The King wasn’t havin’ no trouble tonight, honey chile.

The big gag was that Velvis, being so overweight and over medicated, would pass out in the middle of a song. All attempts to revive him would fail save one: a cheeseburger and fries. Sure enough, chee-burga munching did the trick and Velvis was back. Pills also would fall out of my pockets. Albert Goldman would have beamed.

I know musicians who would never in their lives ever, ever do anything as wild as we did and I fully understand why. Many might feel that their reputation might be permanently damaged or perhaps they would be seen as lesser musicians. Again, I respect this. The obvious attitude of not making a fool of oneself is a perfectly acceptable reason as well, but to all of that I want to say: in the end, what the hell does it matter? A local guitarist once told me I “had a lot of balls to play Volare.” Hmm. I never thought playing that tune required courage of any kind. Putting on a white jumpsuit and turning Elvi on his head, now that takes balls or a complete lack of concern. I was just having fun with no limits.

All the rules in the musician’s union we broke with glee. We had a cocktail blender on stage and gave it a "solo." I remember a musician coming up to us afterwards and said, “You guys blew my mind with the blender.” How else were we going to get our drinks? After all, it’s a long way to the stage.

What reputation we did develop was one that was fun, unpredictable and unique with our Latin influence. We won Graffiti’s Most Fun Band poll every year. Plus, our fans were growing. We became, without bragging, the hottest band in the small city of Charleston. That is not to say there weren’t better bands. I would not be so foolish, but we rivaled anyone in popularity. I’d say we hit the ceiling.

When you make an impact, you piss some people off. People get jealous. Case in point: Rarely did I ever go out and hang posters, but one time, after loading in at The Levee, I decided to duct tape some of them along Capitol Street. I went back to the Levee and grabbed CR to show him my work. In the short time I had merely walked around the corner, someone had ripped them all down. A mook stood outside of The Edge and I asked him point blank, “What did I ever do to you?” “I didn’t do it, man.” “Well, did you see who did?” “No.” That pissed me off, but in hindsight, what did that do or prove? It proved we were making waves. Of the smooth kind, of course.

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 9

2011-05-17T21:18:00.000-04:00

Pre-ramble:

Ok, so I was a bit overboard on the flyers.

Are there coincidences or is there destiny? I have asked myself this a few times in my life. Things literally fell into place in the fall of 1987.

If I hadn’t moved in with my old high school chum, then our musical relationship wouldn't have been as steady. I also wouldn’t have gotten a call from another friend who just happened to be working at Pied Piper then who said, “You better get down here and look at this guitar.” It was one of the first electro-acoustic nylon sting guitars by Takamine. It had the hell beat out of it by some redneck and looked kind of sad, but the tone was rich and its playability was great. Besides, I wasn’t ready to jump into being a full-time electric guitarist. That's never been my forte anyway.

In 1988, Beetlejuice came and I heard Harry Belafonte sing Day-o and Jump in the Line. I had never heard such cool music in my life. The deal was sealed. Let the velvet games begin. Bring on the Caribe, baby!

The Velvet Theater

Always having been a Genesis-Gabriel fan, I liked how music performance could include theatrical elements. Why not push the absurd envelope a little further with some antics? We were already a "joke" anyway.

Get off the floor, you idiot.

It was at the Charleston Playhouse (a former Mexican restaurant) where we implemented our first theatrical stupidities. The place was owned and operated by local actors who decided Charleston was hip enough to need a place for local music and plays. Throw in a bar and you’ve got a very cool place (By the way, this is where I learned of the horrors of Pikeman (sp?) rum. A ghastly, strictly bottom shelf rum that was good for one obvious purpose: oblivion and memory loss).

We had these silly ideas that lounge was born from primordial ooze and so the band played Also Sprach Zarathustra while I was narrating the birth of lounge. I was “hidden” from the audience by lying on the floor behind a wall. Needless to say that while the rush of trying something new was exciting, it’s when you’re doing these stupid things that you realize how damn dumb they are, but stupidity has never stopped me from being stupid. After the big setup, I emerged in complete Johnny Velvet regalia: smoking jacket, ascot, sunglasses, a monster size cocktail glass and the fervent hope that I wasn’t making a complete ass of myself. Or worse, no one would laugh. That’s the real stinger, isn’t it?

My friends laughed and that was enough encouragement to continue down this most ridiculous of paths. That gave rise to the most outrageous of incarnations: Velvis. But first, let’s get a few more things in order here.

Al, Dave, Greg, CR, Tito, Nery, JV and Nelson
Hide your daughters and lock your liquor cabinet.

The Velvet Horns

At some point, I realized that Dave, a master of the trumpet, might make a great addition to the band. I remember playing him All I Know at the university and him making a recording. The horn lines he composed were the perfect compliment to that song. It gave it a lift and emphasized the intended fun. I don’t recall when we brought on Al, trombone-meister, singer and percussionist, but the two of them became The Velvet Horns. Their long-time friendship and playing level brought musical solidarity from the first moment they played with us. I thought that this couldn’t get any better. They added a rich, creamy layer to the Velvet cake. The humor and the grooves were not lost on them either. They quickly joined the brotherhood (I still enjoy playing with Al and Dave. Some things remain.)

Meanwhile, word was getting out and we had regular gigs at the Empty Glass and the Levee. I remember CR, Weg and I having a meeting where we all agreed that we wouldn’t play more than two weekends a month.

That didn’t last long.

We were booked virtually every weekend and we were getting calls from people who wanted us for their weddings, social events, etc. but it was the Levee where some said we sounded the best. I take that as gospel.

The Levee and the Land of Herb Hollywood (1990-93)

The Levee, a dark and dingy bar-cave, was a place my brother frequented long before the band was formed. It was known for having a keg night (inside an old bathtub if I recall), a pool table and plenty of rednecks. When Jon took it over, it still was a shithole, but it was a shithole run by cool people. The main character in the form of barman of this madcap place was Herb Hollywood. Herb was a supporter of the band from the beginning and he was a vital part of the scene. Herb is one of those guys that have a dynamic personality and an easy winning way with people that I envy. He was hilarious and made a mean cocktail - strictly not for amateurs.

When the owner and the bartenders like your music, it is a tremendous amount of support. The band has to win over the crowd ultimately, but with the support of the house, you are going to feel pretty confident. Maybe that’s why people said it was their favorite place to hear us.

There were times when I felt that we certainly didn’t deserve the applause we would get and others I felt like we were nailing the tunes, but the response was tepid. You can never predict how a crowd is going to react, so you dig in your heels and plow forward; even though inside you might feel otherwise. There were times when I felt like, “OK, you’re not with us, so we’re going to have a good time playing in spite of you.” Sometimes that was authentic and sometimes I was just kidding myself- the crowd has to give energy to the musicians or the music never comes to life.

The Levee Follies

Pre-show ritual

Because CR and I were roommates, our pre-show ritual would involve a cocktail to get in the right mood. One evening, we overindulged, oh yes. What was to get us in the mood to play turned out to be a really quick road to being hammered. As we went about our respective rituals of getting dressed, etc., we kept making more rum and cokes. So many, that I told him, “Craig, if I have another drink, I am going to be blitzed.” Off we went in my car together to play the gig.

When we arrived, the lads were in high spirits, but eagle-eyed Greg True saw something was amiss with two of his hombres. He came up to us and said, “You guys have been drinking, haven’t you?” We didn’t lie, but tried to downplay the amount. It didn’t work. I remember nearly falling over backwards over a monitor. When Easy Street, an oldie from Edgar Winter, started I must have been on the moon pitch-wise. I always had trouble finding the starting note anyway and being sloshed only made it worse. At one point, Greg yelled in a quasi-joking way, “Come on, Johnny!” It’s bad when your fellow V Bro calls you out. I felt like I had let the team down. But in velvet world, it wasn’t a biggie and eventually you sober up enough to get your head together.

Herb Goes Hollywood

We had the idea that Herb should do a few numbers with us. He came over to velvet central and we did a mash-up lounge of about three or four songs. Sort of a bad Bob Goulet meets Bowie-Simple Minds-and others. All seemed cool and the evening came. Evidently, Herb had been talking about his velvet début all week to the patrons and “friends” (The guy had a different girlfriend every week.) because the place was packed. I had never seen the Levee filled to the brim like that.

We played a set and then Herb was to open with us the second. I found out a little thing about Herb that I didn’t know: he was a very nervous performer. To see him week after week behind the bar conducting a show like a Vegas pro you wouldn’t believe it, but being up in front of people playing music struck a deep fear in him. It was a fear that needed to be pushed down by drinking.

A nervous Herb grabbed me on the break and said, “Let’s go next door.” OK, what the hell? We went to the bar next-door where we promptly jumped ahead of every thirsty yuppie because, of course, Herb knew the bartender. There we had a wee nip of courage. That is to say, at least three large shots of Jagermeister. I don’t know about you, but I considered three Jagers to be my evening LIMIT, let alone a pre-show sedative. Again, what the hell. This is the velvets and not jazz fusion.

When Hollywood joined us, the crowd all turned to us with their undivided attention. Maybe in that moment, I knew what it felt like to be a rock star because the energy was tremendous- like a wave washing over us. All eyes on us, we slipped into our sunglasses personas: Johnny Velvet and Herb Hollywood. Herb had planned for a cocktail to be brought to him by a buxom waitress while we did our shtick. At the end, the crowd was very generous and Herb gave me a hug. You can’t beat the support of the house. They can turn everything to your advantage.

We had many wonderful nights at Le Levee, but it would be untruthful to say that every night was magical. Some nights we stayed off the goofy path and laid into to some Latin music like our lives were on the line. After all, no joke lasts very long and a band have to work to get the crowd going.

Next: Velvis and a new percussionist

Keep Thy Panic to Zero

2011-05-15T22:11:00.000-04:00

The lovely KUPC

Another gig for the quartet, which might be called the Icarus Ensemble, at the Kanawha United Presbyterian Church. The Kirkin of the Tartan is an annual Scottish service complete with kilts, flags, tartans and bagpipes. A lovely service to be sure.

This year I got a very simple email question: "Do you still have some Scottish music to play?" This email came from Ron, the music director extraordinaire, who is everything most choir directors are not. He is organized without fuss or fury; direct without being brusque and makes it all look easy.

Of course we have music to play. Translation: we will dig the dusty music scores up and put together the 15 minutes of pre-service music.

Rehearsals are funny things. Notes can be mended if sour, but form to me is the most difficult and requires some kind of written note or must be drawn from memory. This is mainly what is discussed: who is going to do what. And that's precisely the pickle.

David's EVI is an electronic value instrument that can produce an array of sounds. He can be a string bass one second, then a penny whistle another. The guitar can double the melody or act as bass or bass/chordal. The flute has only one option, but duration must be taken into consideration-the embouchure and lungs can tire. Percussion works around the three of these and a number of choices are possible. We are ripe for the pickle for all these choices.

Then once the tunes seem ready, a setlist must be written. This is a matter of open debate. There was some confusion among members as to the place of one song in particular. This I believe was resolved.

I have always been a nervous performer and feel that most of my technique and accuracy goes away due to shaky hands, particularly my right hand. This time I tried a different approach. I woke up early enough not to have to rush and to mentally prepare. The morning sitting, followed by slow and cautious practice, and a mantra of "calm, relaxed and focused." Whenever my mind tried to rush through details and minor worries, I used the mantra. Soon the rush and panic of my mental world was convinced and finally gave in to relaxation.

I felt confident about the gig and more importantly, how relaxed I felt playing. I had to start the set solo with a tune called Absent Minded Woman. Before playing, musicians tend to fidget, fidget, fidget. This is not calming or centering. Even when I was playing, I didn't even tap my foot as this is distracting from the fingers. Any energy expended not on the music is waste. At least that's how it felt and worked.

So, here's to maturity and to performances when our nerves are kept at bay and we can play with assurance and focus.

It's only taken 53 years after all.

Start the Car, But Don't Get Crushed

2011-05-07T23:10:00.000-04:00

"Effilina called and she's says you must get the car tonight!"

Just what I didn't want to hear. After work and my workout, I like to mellow with a well-deserved couch excursion or in the common parlance, nap. No nap, the Queen hath commanded. Thou murderer of sleep.

Once an idea enters my aunt's mind, it becomes like a brain worm. She can't stop thinking, fretting and worrying about it until it's done. She will actually get so upset that tears will follow. The car needed inspection and it was coming due the next day. If that inspection would be overdue, I'm quite sure she would go out of her mind.

I got dropped off and thought that this was gonna be easy.

Why do I tell myself such things?

The car didn't start. A familiar "click click click" told me that the battery was dead.

Rose, my aunt's caregiver, was there and so we had to roll the car out of the garage. "Put it in reverse," Rose suggested.
"Not neutral?"
"Nah, reverse."
Ok, let's see if it will roll. Imagine the scene: Rose, a large woman, is pushing from the front. I'm in between the car and the cabinets. The space is barely enough for an adult to squeeze in, let alone wrangle a 2,000 some pound vehicle with the door open.

CHUNK! The car stops. The door is stuck on the cabinet handle. Shit. Push car forward, let's try this again. Rose keeps saying, "Turn the wheel, turn the wheel!" Now, everyone knows that power steering doesn't work without the engine on, rather it's like turning a granite stone.

CHUNK! Same thing. More insistence: "Turn the wheel 'cause you're heading out crooked." The cabinet caught the door.

Now, I realize that I am between cabinet and car which is about to roll. Instantly, I remember an episode of Six Feet Under in which a poor bastard gets rolled over by his own SUV. This I think about as I get into the car as it begins the roll back. It was at the point where the car was gathering speed that a swift move had to be made and little room for a mistake. Mercifully, I got into the car and braked the car under control.

This, instead of a nap?

We jumped it and then I dropped the car off to be inspected. On the way home, I thought, "Gee, that could have gone real bad." In almost every situation, I find myself playing out various scenarios, including the ugly ones. I can't help it. Too many TV shows and movies I suppose.

In this case, my paranoia served me well.

So, kids, stay alert, with a healthy dose of paranoia, skepticism and be wary of requests. Even those that come from beloved aunties.

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 8

2011-05-04T23:48:00.001-04:00

"When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers."

Them facts:
We had ridiculous names for our "tours" which might just be one gig or dozens as was the case in later years.
Candle Light Tour (85-86): so named because of cheesy electric candles left over at the Cantina from the steak house days.
Take Care Babe Tour (86-87)
Just Say Yes (88-89). Greg True was added. We said yes to Nancy Reagan's "no." A ultra lounge tune by the same name was written. Years later, at my 50th birthday party, we played that song and our fill-in drummer said, "There are not enough cocktails on earth to make me that lounge." Well said, my friend.
The Casual Tour (89-90) Tito on the kit and "Velvis" makes his first appearance.
Totally Lounge Tour (90) The Veebs were in full swing, playing so many gigs that we could run hot one night or have zero mojo, but the music was well seasoned as well as the players.

Salsa: the ultimate cool Latino cat

Tito, aka Glenn, brought in Nelson or as we dubbed him, Salsa and he fit like a Velvet glove. Nelson hailed from Ponce, Puerto Rico and played just about everything: guitar, keyboards, loads of percussion, plus he sang. He was equally at home behind the keys as he was the congas. He is just a natural. Plus, he was a laid-back cat. He got the whole Caribbean vibe of the Veebs, but I don’t think he ever understood the lounge aspect. Tito got that message, but Nelson had to wonder what the hell we were doing sometimes with wacky covers of songs he’d probably never heard. This was no matter because I began to absorb the Latin lessons on guitar he was to teach.

Though I had been conservatory trained, my knowledge of how Latin music applied to the guitar was nil. The complex syncopations are not easy my friends and even when you finally understand them in basic terms, you have to play them in the right feel. It’s like the difference between real reggae and the British variety that began to emerge in the 80’s. The Brits may have the right notes in the right places, but there’s no flow, no groove. Listen to Sly and Robbie play versus Sting and Stewart Copeland and the difference is night and day. If it doesn’t groove, then it’s not music.

I remember when Nelson was teaching us La Paloma, a merengue that has simple straightforward chords for the verse and a V7-I jam session as a B section. Sounds easy, right? Nelson showed me this little riff that played off of the V7-I progression that took me at least a week or two to get right. If you took Nelson and me and asked us to play it, his would be the better of the two. He has the distinct advantage of growing up with these rhythms in his head, of course, but this stuff is not acquired through the intellect. It has to be absorbed through listening, playing and ultimately “feeling” the Latin groove which differs from Euro-American music in one huge way: the groove is on the off beat. It’s genius really.

His strumming was another thing that fried my brain cells. I couldn’t get the accents or the fluidity (Still true), so another shift in the old musical paradigm. I had to work on it. Despite how square we must have sounded, the Latinos must have heard something emerging that was close to authentic. They could have said privately to one another, “Look, these gringos aren’t getting this stuff. Let’s form our own band.” Our sincerity to do these songs justice was evident. We didn’t want to merely imitate the style, but truly breathe life into these pieces. Also, we didn’t try act Latino; this was no liberal hands-across-the-culture social experiment. This was about love of music that surpasses a passing political fancy. In short, we were for reals, baby.

At the same time, the Latinos in our group did not anchor the rock or blues numbers that we played. Glenn could swing and rock, but there were better rock drummers around. We never looked around for any other because we had the perfect guy behind the kit.

Nelson was an easy and natural fit. We’d work the song up to a certain point and he always would say, “And we can just jam, man.” You mean know the basic structure of the song, but otherwise just casually improvise the rest? The Velvet way again. Organize? Only to a degree, buddy, after that it was seen as being a little too neurotic. Sometimes one of us would say, “Rehearsing is for cowards.”

Something else began to emerge: a new hybrid was forming. My breaking free, so to speak, of classical chains really started to happen when I began to incorporate Latin rhythms into original songs.

All I Know was a cute little merengue number that was one of the first to emerge and one that certainly we got a lot of mileage from over the Velvet years. It was an ode to indifference (my own) and continuous conflict that was on the news:

Well, they talk on having world peace

The liberals and Conservatives alike,

But I don’t see the reasoning

‘Cause we can’t agree on the simplest things in life.

So the Latin thing was becoming a way of writing originals. Oddly, it was originals that we became known for. Perhaps that and Santana were our trademarks. Plus, we did something that many musicians and bands never seem to understand: we entertained people. There are some musicians who are so into the idea of themselves as serious players that they never really get that aspect of public performance. It’s ok to sing a silly song, do something seriously daffy or laugh at yourself. It’s all about the entertainment. You can keep your reputation as a player intact and have a blast playing. I can name names the countless musicians I know who would feel it beneath themselves to ever do anything close to what we did on stage. Our secret weapon was simple: it’s called fun.

And boy the shit we did on stage.

Next: Life at the Levee

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 7

2011-05-03T22:46:00.000-04:00

El trío de Terciopelo. Where's CR?

You Guys Gonna Be Radio Stars?

The Velvet four got an opportunity to play a late, late night radio show hosted by madman Rudy Panucci. Rudy's Saturday night show began at 1AM (or was it later?) and was a combination of commercial CDs, live guests, and off-the-wall spontaneous skits. The musical guests may or not have been sober enough to perform, but that only added to the merry mayhem. Generous and open-minded, he was and continues to be a long-time supporter of local music.

The band was pretty tight I have to admit. Tapes of this show exist and the fullness of time has allowed me to hear the group as objective as possible. Horribly critical of myself, especially my singing, I find I can listen to this recording without cringing. Local music freak, Gopher George, said we were the most professional sounding band that Rudy had had on his show. Coming from him, that's sort of a keeper.

Our repertoire included the original, Bound to Fall, a song I wrote about a friend's girlfriend troubles. It also reflected my continuous bad relationship choices:

I never know what's good for me, you see,
Once I'm in I want it all.
When you start to accept only second best,
Once I'm in I'm bound to fall.

The second verse considered our bewilderingly violent world and the narcissism that results in senseless tragedy:

Going up with a rifle
on the highest rooftop in town.
I might take a few with me
before I go down.
Searchlights and newsmen,
demands and their pleas,
and the eyes of the world
are focused on me.

CR Smoothie: Lost in the smoothness.

On the lighter side, we did a lounge version of What I Like About You with Greg True singing it in a wonderful hammy lounge-o-rific style. One Night Flingo had become a standard. Tito led us with Cana Brava, a classic merengue. Another original, I'm Cold, written about a relationship that had ended (without any real words spoken by me) that contained perhaps the key to the soul of Johnny Velvets everywhere:

You know there's no regret when it's over and done.
You don't need to ask yourself why you didn't see it come.
You see a dark highway spin out in the night.
Leave behind no goodbyes, just a wink of the tail lights.
I'm cold.

Rudy had a ball trying to get the radio audience in on the lounge joke, but callers didn't seem to grasp it. This was no matter; we were there to play. Greg and I bantered about using the "Johnny" voice, but it was Craig, being his normal, sheepish self, who delivered the best lines by telling people we were on our tour "up the Kanawha River" and to "come see us at your local dive."

Your Local Dive

I remember the VBs as a quartet doing many gigs at Bentley's - a gig we got because the owner really liked us and of course, Greg had cache as a member of The Ride. Those hot and sweaty nights were my baptism by fire as the amps, PA, monitors and the endless wires were something quite alien to me. By alien, I mean shocking, often disorienting and I hated it.

Setting up to me was a nightmare and quite stressful. Greg and Craig "debated" the finer points of where the shit went and I always deferred to them. I didn't know what to do and quite honestly didn't want to know. This was always the most tense moment for me. At times, whether they were aware of it or not, people could get quite bossy. This does not work well for me. I had to silently bear what I perceived as being unnecessarily harsh.

"Can you move just a little bit?"

One thing that began to happen was, after fussing endlessly with my amp, effects, two guitars, somebody would ask me to move everything. This made me furious as it seemed to happen always after I finished. Arrrgh! (Years later, I got really pissed off because the same thing happened, and I had, shall we say, less than a cheerful attitude about moving stuff. I have always behaved professionally at gigs, but this time my scars were rubbed raw and instantly anger was triggered. TO this day, I wait until others have set up until I lift a finger.)

Rick Moranis as lounge god Tom Monroe.

In the beginning, we never embraced the idea of the killer opening number followed by three or four uptempo numbers to win over the crowd. That's what I loved about us. We followed the Velvet credo: always be smooth. It would be typical of us to opening with our bossa nova version of The Police's De Doo Doo Doo inspired by SCTV's Tom Monroe. To do otherwise would have been a disaster. People caught onto the idea. I remember one local musician who came to see us and he said, "You guys slow down and take it easy up there." He got the joke.

The Velvets would later launch into Black Magic Woman and Oye Como Va with all the velvety fury we could muster, but set one was about warming up, getting the sound right and being casual. We had the gig, but fuck the hair band rock star posing. Ascots, smoking jackets and rum cocktails: these were the flags we flew. Plus, Craig bought a fake palm tree and that pretty much told everyone who walked into the door what we were all about.

The process was slow, but I remember that the night was no sooner over than the owner brought out a calendar and asked for future weekends. We became regulars at that bar. The experiment was working. We were out of the basement now for sure.

Huh? Wait a minute, now. You said you guys felt like losers. Yep. CR and I still did. Tito and Greg never expressed that. You have to have people in your band who support one another otherwise it's just mechanics- mercenary at its core. That's how I always felt anyway. We were friends who just happened to play music together. I'm not saying we tore the place up every night, but we entertained people in our own way.

Several beautiful things began to emerge. At this point, either Greg or I could have been considered the front guy. We traded that role. As much as I crave the limelight, I didn't want the role all the time. (Singing brings a catharsis like nothing else, but sometimes I like to concentrate only on the guitar.) Now, because we were both guitarists, there was going to be a little competition between us, but even that was musically symbiotic: Greg was (is) the master of burning blues-rock leads and myself more of a rhythm man. Tito was always supportive of the goofy or outrageous things which made their way into the lyrics and was never a greedy player. He preferred the groove over busy fills. Then there was CR- the guy who completely downplayed his playing. Never had an ego about music and he was my support system. No matter how far out I went, I knew that at the end of the night, he had my back. Sometimes, I'd look over and he'd be laughing, shaking his head. Unless there was a cocktail or a lady involved, then who could find him?

Call Him "Salsa"

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 6

2011-04-26T12:59:00.023-04:00

"How about a few cocktails, babe?"

“Then, we find a new and deeper respect for the benevolence of the creative impulse: it succeeds despite these people, not because of them.” –Robert Fripp

“You're out of touch, my baby, my poor discarded baby.”

The late 80’s were a time when synth pop and drum machines ruled. Madonna, The Police and every anemic-looking English pop band were chart favorites. And let’s not forget the forgettable hair bands like Poison who showed that showmanship above musicianship was industry standard. The three minute video with pouting, guitar slinging she-males, complete with the ubiquitous anorexic zombie cokehead models, were the video “art” of MTV. Oh, what a glorious decade (save for The Police) it was for music.

Then, there were three dudes who fit the era like a drunken cockney at a royal wedding. We couldn’t have been more out of fashion if we had tried. The thing is, we didn’t try. We weren’t rebelling. “You are what you is,” saith the Frank Zappa and in our case, that was the truth. Now, Greg had already proven himself a wielder of a mighty blues-rock axe in Brian Diller and the Ride, whereas CR and me were sort of still in that “neither is, nor is not” musical neverland. I could play Bach, Torroba, Sor, but didn’t want to be limited to one style. CR played his jazzy Vince Gauraldi funk lounge. All was well, but a new synthesis was in the works.

We were out of fashion even in the conventional sense. Greg tended toward the rocker look more than CR and me who tended towards preppy or downright West Virginia: flannel shirts, jeans and boat shoes. Always the damn boat shoes.

At some point, this lounge-rock-latin mishmash stopped seeming absurd. All the while, boys and girls, our originals were growing in number. The originals existed comfortably along side any cover song. Craigo’s Groove sat right along side Demolition Man on a set list without any irony. One Night Flingo? Corcovado? Charlie Brown’s theme song? Sure, all part of the same thing. It was Velvet.

Wedding: A Twist of Tito

Armed with a PA and a drum machine, Greg got us another wedding to play. At weddings, we knew that you have to tame things down at bit and to always be aware of your volume. The band is there only if someone wants to dance, but most of the time it was smooth background dinner music- the old soft bossa nova or an easy swing tune. We were awfully good at being invisible.

The mighty Tito: master of Latin grooves.

After the gig, an older man came up to us and told us how much he liked our sound. He went on further to tell us that he was from Puerto Rico and played drums. When he told us that he cold play bossa, merenque, salsa and all these latin beats, I stood in utter disbelief. My jaw must have been open to the floor. Glenn impressed me so that I was casting a “yes” to hire him on the spot. He gave us a business card and we promised to call him.

Years later, I asked Glenn point blank why he approached us. He told me that he was impressed with how attentive we were to the crowd. I never thought of us that way, but this was to be another characteristic of the future Veebs.

Glenn, or Tito as we later dubbed him, was the next piece of the Velvet puzzle to propel us to becoming a real gigging band. Glenn was older and had a very calming and organizing effect on us. His sense of organization was impeccable and when he would shout at a rehearsal, “Come on guys! I’ve only got an hour more,” we listened because we respected him so much. He was like a father figure to the three guys who were frequently fraught with musicianistis: a total lack of direction or organization. Musicians can fall totally love with an idea (It’s called noodling) or they babble on and on about some new fangled piece of equipment that going to change their sound into total nirvana. It’s mostly an illusion and nonsense and all musicians suffer from it at one time or another.

I distinctly remember (and have on tape somewhere) asking Glenn to show us the merenque beat. I tried to understand this Dominican Republic dance rhythm, but can safely say that it took a lot of time to for us to even comprehend the pattern, let alone contribute anything meaningful to it.

You Can’t Fake It, Baby

There is a small, but distinct Latino community in the Charleston-Huntington area and Glenn got us booked for one of their get-togethers. This was the acid test to me. Could three gringos pull off this music for a gathering of Latinos? If Glenn didn’t believe it, we wouldn’t have even been there, but to me, I was waiting for the mangos to start flying in our direction.

And none came.

The gig went very well and we were very well received which came at a great relief. We had pulled off something no doubt unique not only to our area, but even in metropolitan areas. I have heard one Latino firmly say, that in NY for instance, the Latin musical communities and those of the hombres blancos never mix. There is a fierce pride in Latin communities, a pride I have seen and experienced, firsthand. It is not a closed society, quite the opposite, but in most cases, you probably had to be married to a Latino/Latina to be accepted. But the fact we had played this music well enough to win the respect of those attending was a boost.

(While this is truly apocryphal, when I was with a friend in Central Park, innocently grooving to a drum circle, a Latina came along and said, as if to warn us, “No whites. No whites.” Really? This wasn't a "hood," but Central Park.)

So, maybe this gig is going to work after all.

With Tito in the band, the Latin groove was for real and personally, he brought so much positive energy. When we got an "Outstanding, guys!" from Tito, it lit up the room. Musically, he was the most restrained drummer I have ever worked with. He told me that when his father (many stories there) gave him his first drum lessons, that he was going to teach him something that some drummers never learn: how to play quietly. True to his father's teachings, Glenn would play the sweetest (and softest) bossa you've ever heard. He was always telling us to keep our volume in check. Because he was always truthful and straight to the point, I can say that none of us got miffed when he told us this. Musicians have massive egos sometimes, but there's always an alpha player to keep them in check.

Next: More Tito and Should We Add Another Latino?

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 5

2011-04-22T22:39:00.001-04:00

Preamble:
Why, you might be asking yourself, why is this blogger recounting his band days? This shit is boring.

First, I agree with that sentiment, but I hope this shit is not boring. Every musician is more than willing to prat on and on about their gigs. Every one of us musos feels that somehow we have contributed something unique to music, regardless of any supporting evidence. Plus, anybody who has been in a band for any length of time realizes a few things only after time has given them a proper perspective.

That being said, I am compelled to continue because the story only gets more complicated, funnier and I use this tiny Internet space to purge myself of my past and to tell a tale I feel is worth telling. Plus, the VBs dominated my life in a manner that I wasn't expecting and in way, we haven't stopped playing even some 17 years after we hung it up.

“How can a loser ever win?”

After moving in with CR, I (we) started going to a lot of bars. I was a single man with no girlfriend and so I frequented the local watering holes in search of love (cough cough). Bars are very strange places, very ugly places actually with little or no redeeming value for anyone but the bar owner. They are usually absolutely filthy, filled with “regulars” of questionable character and with noise levels so dangerous that everyone should be wearing hearing protection. That said, it was in a filthy bar, Bentley’s, a shithole on Capitol Street, that I had a revelation.

I started going on Wednesday night when a local band hosted an open mic night. I watched these guys playing what seemed to be absolutely simple music (compared to the arduous task of say learning a Bach lute suite) all while they were having fun and they drew the attention of the crowd. Me thought, “I want me some of that.” Why should I play just for blue hairs or for the sole purpose of parental approval? This music which I had studied so diligently and that I loved had a fatal flaw in the Chemical Valley: limited audience and playing opportunities at best. What did locals know of classical guitar? Musicians were among the cognoscenti, but what about general appeal? Fuck, I grew up hearing the songs on the jukebox and The Anchor and the Vets Club and I knew this was a lost cause. Besides, I wanted attention.

Get the Hell Out of the Basement

The Velvet three began getting together on a fairly regular basis and at one rehearsal, Greg said, “Why don’t we play at open mic night at Bentley’s?” The sheer audacity of that idea threw me. Us? Are good enough? Playing in front of people? In public?

Our repertoire was very strange to say the least. Looking back on it now, it was a ballsy move. There was mucho potential to leave the audience silenced. There was piece called Karmic Backlash from the days collaborating with Greg that involved audio snippets (They did not call them samples or sampling yet.) from The Rockford Files (An episode called Nirvana Quickie). The selected episode had a hippie chick that said, “O wow, Alan, I can’t believe your lies. You’ll probably wind up getting squashed from the karmic backlash.” There were other funny phrases as well and while the tape with the voice samples ran, we played this funky tune. One Night Flingo, a rumba with an obvious topic, was another song. The third song I cannot recall. All were originals - another bold move by my estimation.

Addendum: Asking CR and Greg regarding the third tune, the consensus is that it was another original tune. To make your public splash with all originals is still ballsy to me.

We practiced like hell. We especially worked hard to coordinate our parts with the Rockford Files bits. That was tricky on a number of levels. The evening came and we drug our equipment downtown. We asked the house band could we play while they took a break and sure, we could play a few songs. So, three guys and a tape (Drum machine? Can’t recall.) made their informal debut. I have always been a performer who struggles with nerves and at that unseasoned point in my “career,” I must have been a shaky mess.

I was taken back by the absolute power and volume by the Stratocaster and the huge Roland amp the guitarist used. It was the furthest thing possible from the quiet and delicate sound of my acoustic guitar. I felt like I had gotten into the ring with a wild horse and I was supposed act like I was in complete control. Craig had his usual look of sheepish “I shouldn’t be doing this” look, but Greg was in his element. He was talking to the crowd like it had been his band playing all along. He was our liaison; selling us before we played a note.

I remember that things went pretty well; even old Jim Rockford might have smiled. The crowd seemed to follow what we were doing. After what seemed to be only a few seconds, we were done. As I was going for a well-deserved drink, a girl smiled and said, “I liked that. It was different.” Damn. The maiden voyage, with all of its weirdness, was a success. I was surprised as anyone. Greg believed, but CR and I were still doubting Thomases.

Greg was right and if he hadn’t encouraged us to step out of the safety net of the basement, we might have never continued on the path to becoming a real band. I wouldn’t have guessed in a million years it would have worked that night.

Next: Call Him Tito

The Velvet Papers, Pt.4

2011-04-20T14:37:00.000-04:00

"We're in the pipe, five by five."

Reentry Is a Bitch

When I graduated from Peabody, I had gone through a very high pressure recital in order to receive my degree. That is to say, that if that live performance was a total wreck, then no degree for you, Senor Stupido. This was proceeded, of course, by months (4 years if you really count it) of practicing guitar music 8 to 10 hours a day. While this significantly ups your guitar game, eventually you must enter the world of making a living. It sucks, but it must be.

Adjusting to the real world was difficult. At one point, I had imagined I would want to stay in college forever. Methought I would teach college and after about a month of celebrating my graduation, I dutifully and hopefully sent out my resume to various colleges. The response became predictable and quickly became a needle that said "failure.":

"Thank you for your interest in {insert college here}, but currently we have no opening in your field. We will keep your resume on file (file 13) in case there is an opening in the future. Yours most insincerely, Mary S. Inflated-sense-of-self Administrator, DMA, BA, LSD, BS."

Every letter I sent, save the one I sent to a local university, returned the same reply. No one had told me that you at least needed a doctorate to rate even an interview and it best be in something like history, early music or theory or to the soup kitchen for you, buddy. "Gee," me thought, "No one gives a damn that I graduated from a prestigious conservatory." I didn't expect a million offers, but none? Staying in Baltimore seemed stupid to me because I saw graduates scramble to teach at senior citizen centers. Really? This is why you spent all that time? It seemed pathetic. I felt helpless as well. (Author and guitarist Glenn Kurtz actually quit. His story is a great read and quite poignant.)

For the Blue Hairs

I played a few recitals at home, much to the delight of my parents, the local choir director, and classical music aficionados. I teamed up with a professional singer and explored the repertoire of guitar and voice. We took our show to Pittsburgh and auditioned for a concert series. We were turned down, although the singer said they were impressed, but didn't know what to do guitar and voice as we all know violin (or cello) and piano rule the chamber music universe. Local recitals and even a master class with David Tannenbaum were part of our time together. I was still affected by my accomplishments and though no one would ever accuse me of being a purist, this time was the closest I would ever come to that description.

So, I was living at home, which was driving me insane, and only had a part-time teaching gig at the local university. I had nothing basically. Then, lightning struck!

My parents, told me that they wanted to move from Charleston to Pennsylvania so that my mom could be closer to her twin sister and family. Did I want to make the move with them?

No.

Somehow, the safe haven of one's childhood becomes a prison for the young adult. Besides, I could just picture what life would have been like, as pleasant and supportive as they were, I would have been a man-child. A rotten, spoiled, man-child sponging off his parents. No doubt fat from home cooking, mean and miserable. Besides, I was too old to be living at home.

After a glorious summer (full of "romance") spent at a lakeside cabin, I moved in with my pal, Craig.

Life at the "Transient House"

This was gonna be so cool. Just Craig and me hanging out, playing when we wanted to, partying when we felt like it. We were young bachelors, living wild and free, especially me. I had two part-time jobs ( a theme that was to follow me for quite a while) and neither of them demanded much. Craig however had a full-time gig as an architect for a company that designed coal loaders.

When the evening came around, he would wander back to the house after work, mix a cocktail and we would jam. Usually I had spent the day practicing or writing, so I was raring to go.

Craig and I weren't exactly the Odd Couple, but of the two of us, he was infinitely more social. Plus he had four brothers and a large extended family. People were always stopping by unannounced. There were times when I welcomed a house full of people and others when it felt like a huge intrusion. Perhaps it was spending so much time alone, wrestling with composing - always a private act of soul searching. Most of the day spent "in my head," as it were, always presented a disconnect for me between that quiet, sacred space of music and interacting with people. I felt awkward around some people anyway, so this isolation only heightened my reticence.

There were so many guests at the house that years later I found out that the neighbors called it the Transient House, as they could not figure out exactly who lived there. Who could blame them? We came and went at all hours of the day and night. Perhaps that's why no one ever broke in and nabbed any of our equipment. Who could guess who was home or not? Craig's brothers might be lazing on the couch when you walked in the door.

He bought a used drum machine and of course, what else? We programmed it for Latin beats, adding a soca beat for more variety. As much as we enjoyed the shelter of the basement band, this might have remained only a footnote to my musical life. One key element came into play and we dubbed him, "Greg True."

And Then There Were Three.

Why the stupid nicknames? Why did we call ourselves Johnny Velvet and CR Smoothie? That's not funny. Probably to you, it's not, but to us, it was hysterical to imagine these two lounge lizards living la dulce vita without a plan, a code or moral compass. A life of booze, broads and gigs. But as we realized, you can't sustain a joke for a 45 minute musical set. There has to be something more. And much, much more was to come.

Greg was already in one of the city's hottest bands and by the time he was coming around to the Velvet way of doing things, they had matured into quite a solid unit. They weren't fucking around. They were out to rock. But, let's back pedal a little first.

But Greg had always been an open minded musician who dabbled in just about everything. He and I had spent many an hour writing songs back in the early 80's and recording them in his bedroom (never a good place for a recording "studio"). During that time, I do believe that Greg and I were in what I call the "knucklehead" stage of a musical journey. We did what we wanted without regard to whether or not anyone but us liked it. Although it feels inferior to those involved, it is actually a very innocent time of music making. One could call it a time of "creative incubation." I can also see the sense of searching, chaos and time wasting.

He and I spent a rather dark summer where we going to bars as much or more than our pursuit of music. I remember one night when three girls walked by and one of the them, ironically the least attractive, barked like a dog at us. That hurt. We certainly did nothing to deserve it. It killed my enthusiasm for the night anyway.

During the time I was in school, Greg had gotten away from working solely for the family business and began to work as a waiter in a popular downtown restaurant. This matured him and his self-confidence blossomed. At first, I wasn't sure if I liked this new and improved Greg, but nevertheless I knew I wanted to snag him into some kind of band.

Next: Do We Have to Pay the Drum Machine? and The Kids Get Their First "Real" Gig

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 3

2011-04-17T19:38:00.000-04:00

"Perhaps you can join us for some cocktails
and dee latin music, yes? You are such a pretty lady."

"Turn a seeming disadvantage to your advantage.
The greater the seeming disadvantage, the greater the possible advantage."

To say, at this point in the Velvet game, that we took ourselves seriously would be erroneous. Far from it. We just lacked confidence in our music. We lacked confidence, period. What to do then? If there is the smallest of thread of hope, then there's something from which to move forward. That thread for us was "fun." Serious, kick-ass musicians we were not, but our enthusiasm helped us through.

C Minor Swing was one of the earliest original pieces that turned our disadvantage of piano-guitar instrumentation to an advantage. A relatively simple jazz attempt, it had one thing that kept it from being totally dismissible: it was fun to play. Plus, it had character. As a girlfriend once described it, who was normally very picky about her compliments, called it, "playful." That was good enough for me. It was the first instance where Craig wrote everything but the melody. That was left to me. Funny thing, I have never imagined myself as a terribly melodic player or writer, but this was to follow us.

There were some other originals, all with a latin beat, that varied from the merely trivial to the ridiculous: Bossa Nova Baby would top the latter of that list. One Night Flingo was a song I wrote one lonely summer to a rumba beat supplied by a drum machine. At some point, The Police's De Do Do Do was given a gentle bossa nova send-up by Craig. (I loved and still do our version and the very imperfect demo we recorded of that song.) The joke of lounge, laced with latin beats, hung over everything we did. (I do believe that, at a DNA level, if lounge gene markers could ever be detected, Craig would have the highest count of anyone I've known. He IS lounge. Well, I'd probably be a close second.)

A Velvet New Year's Anyone?

We came up with the idea that we should play New Year's Eve at the Cantina. We enlisted two of my college buddies, Robert on bass and Bob on auxiliary percussion, plus our friend, Robbie who had just purchased a new drum machine.

The long ago halcyon days when our schedules were so unfettered by adult responsibilities that we could rehearse for hours on end are like a dream to me now. But, back then, Robert would come up for a week and when we could corral the discursive Craig, we "worked" on some covers and originals. I don't ever remember the whole band being together except at the gig, but nevertheless the goal was the gig. When you have a gig, the scatter brain musicians will focus for one reason: no one likes to suck in public.

Craigo's Groove was an instance where CR wrote the chords and bass line and then I came up with the melody. Robert, despite the guitar being his first love, sounded like he was born to play the bass. The idea was coming together. I even borrowed a PA system for the gig. Hot damn.

Craig really wanted to cover Elton John's Saturday's Nights Alright (for Fighting). I kept having trouble with the guitar rhythm plus the song was clearly out of my vocal range. Instead of thinking to change the key, we kept plugging away at it. I remember the strain on my poor vocal cords and after one run-through, I asked Robert about how I was doing. He paused and stated, "More reverb." Then bowled over in laughter, unable to maintain his composure at his own statement. This did not bolster my confidence to say the least, but what the hell? The gig is the gig. Plus, we didn't do things like key changes back then. The tune was hard enough to learn, let alone change it all. Fuck no.

Robbie came over one night, brought his fancy drum machine and he took notes on the proposed set list. I remember during the "stolen tango" that Craig innocently told him to open the fireplace stove for one reason or another and to "grab that black thing there." Instantly, we heard a howl: "GODDAMMMM!!!"
"What happened?"
"I burned the shit out of my thumb, man."
Craig apologized profusely, but no one, not even me, went near that black bastard of a fire place again. Let Craig do it.

Craig gingerly asked Robbie, who had a mucho brief stint in a new wave band, if he thought that our music was appropriate for a New Year's evening? He gave a direct, but comedic answer:
"Happy ......New...(he then feigned someone falling asleep). Backing of fellow musicians? Check.

Play the Fucking Gig Already!

On the day of the gig, when we set up, I had another ridiculous idea. "Why don't we go on stage one by one?" You see, despite my perceived, real or imaginary, musical limitations, I loved all the theatricality of Peter Gabriel or David Bowie. The "one by one" idea fit perfectly with our whole ridiculous notion of the Velvet Brothers - a name which was no longer any question as to the who, what or why of it. It was a perfect band name.

Robbie came on stage first (stage in this case was a small ass platform that was used for who knows what during the Lazlo Steak House days) and began the swing beat. Robert, Bob, Craig and I followed last. Silliness and fun were the order of the evening, with many cocktails consumed by the band plus try to play the right damn notes.

Robert's friends and family showed up and took a huge table close to le stage. Their literal screams and cries of enthusiasm mostly trumped the redneck element who tried in vain to heckle us. If we were out in the boonies, say five minutes out of Charleston, he might have won the evening and might have had a good opportunity to pick a fight, but he was outnumbered. He requested something like Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer or something inane and out of place like that. Craig, ever willing to please, exchanged friendly banter with him while I kept my mouth shut. I have little patience with those who want to heckle or disturb the band. Get your own goddam band and I'll come and yell stupid requests at you.

Greg or the Weg (an old pal of us both) was in a successful band called Brian Diller and the Ride. They were a serious and well rehearsed band with a good local following. Greg was their lead guitarist and he stopped by, in full 80's rock regalia complete with earring, to play a few tunes before his "real" gig started. He certainly had attained a professional edge to his playing and we appreciated him dropping in.

He was encouraging to the loser duo from the beginning. Our rehearsal with him of a few Beatles tunes and one or two of his originals was a blast. "You guys ought to play out." I was beaming inside. To have one of your peers give you the thumbs up means more than can be described.

The gig went well, much rum/gin/beer was consumed and afterwards, we had the run of the kitchen. Tony evidently had gone home with a lady friend and left us alone to lock up. We made the mammoth Cantina burgers and ate like pigs.

Still, we were not a band, but a ragged, loose conglomerate who were just having fun, never in a million years dreaming of what was to come.

Next: And Then There Were Three

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 2

2011-04-13T23:46:00.001-04:00

Somewhere in a warehouse is the sacred
faux wood Zodiacal plaque, but this is close enough.

The Cantina in Kanawha City is pretty much today what it was back in the 80's: tired, seedy, and generally quite depressing, but the food was decent. Tony offered all-you-can-eat snow crab legs (One night I ate sixteen orders.), a decent if not small filet mignon accompanied by a tired potato and a burger that was so huge that cardiologists would shudder. Specials included Tacos on Wednesday or $5 pitchers on Tuesday and any other scheme he could use to get customers in the door. For us locals, it was a casual place to get stuffed or hammered in an environment that was mostly free of fist fights and the usual rough trade brought by the redneck fringe.

But, Uncle Tony, Craig's dad, at least had a regular customer base and despite this being a West Virginia working class bar/steak house, there were were signs, literally, of lounge.

The grandest and most inspirational to us was a huge Zodiac wheel, made of some synthetic material, that hung high above one of the booths. However ridiculous this was, this no more appeared out of place than any of the other decorations as the interior was a mishmash of junk. The Ton-ster was a regular at estate sales, state auction and going out of business blowouts. All ended up in storage somewhere or as decorations.

This motherlicker was heavy.
Back then, Craig played a Rhodes 88. This now classic keyboard has become the keyboard to sample or emulate in the digital world. Trouble is, in the real world, it was heavy as as a mother. And then some. I remember having to avoid having my fingers crushed or clipped neatly off while loading this beast into the back of the CR mobile.

My equipment was a 1977 Kramer electric guitar complete with aluminum neck (I paid $200 for this back in the day. I see one listed at $1299.99.) This is one heavy guitar. I had a 50 watt Peavey amp.

We must have looked ridiculous. At some point, Craig found a black velvet smoking jacket with gold trim collar and sleeves. I can't remember which one of us wore it first, but we dressed up lounge style for the gig. Plus whole black pants, shoes and white shirts kinda "professional" look. The jacket went out of style at least 20 to 30 years ago, but nevertheless, it was essential. At least to our serious notion that smoking jackets, bossa nova and drinks with parasols should not be merely relegated to the golden era of the Rat Pack, but should be a lifestyle to be fully embraced, wardrobe included. (Note to readers: this belief has not changed.)

We must have sounded ridiculous. I remember that songs included Mister Magic by Grover Washington Jr., How Long by Ace, The Big Country by Talking Heads and selections from Vince Guaraldi-the composer behind the Peanuts cartoons. A wire music stand held the small yellow tablet on which I had scrawled chord changes. This stand also served as a mic stand; the mic being plugged into my amp. As I stated, ridiculous.

My singing voice has always been a source of self-ridicule. It has gone from being dismal in high school with practically no sense of pitch, developed a tremendous "wobble" of a vibrato during college with a propensity to wander, and pretty much was a hit-or-miss during the early Velvet days. Mostly miss. Still, nothing can come between a fool and his dream. Mine was to sing and with more guts than talent, I plowed through.

Craig insisted we do The Eagle's Tequila Sunrise and I would most likely count this as the worst of my singing. I never felt like I could do the job adequately anyway, but he insisted. So, with mic dangling from a cheap wire music stand, I groaned out the tune.

The Dynamic Duo

I cannot say how many gigs Craig and I did as a duet at the Cantina, but there are some highlights.

I remember one where a family sat close to the "stage." There sat a little girl who just keep looking up at these strange men, one in a smoking jacket, while they played their music which may have fit some pine paneled diner of yesteryear, not the Cantina. Part of me felt like she was interested in the music and part of me wondered if she thought us from another planet.

There was also the first time I experienced hecklers. At a table sat a group of men who all wore RC Cola logos on their shirts. The RC Cola plant has long since shut down, but these yahoos were pretty vocal at their displeasure at what they no doubt considered horrible music. It was during the Talking Heads' Big Country that I heard them repeat the lyrics I was singing. Their nasal tone spoke volumes. Still, even though I was a very green public performer at this point, I ignored them, although I was furious and hurt inside.

Craig never ever seemed to be hurt by anyone's criticism. At his core, he really believes that he is not a good player and his modesty is not false. He is a rare musician that has no ego. (This fundamental difference between us has never been divisive, but has served as a form of yin and yang: "CR Smoothie"- the smooth and calm one and "Johnny"- the ego driven front guy. While Craig would never be the guy who would set the room on fire, without him, Jim wouldn't have the badly needed support to have the confidence to try. Even if I failed to light a spark, Craig's there as a bedrock.)

There was one occasion that changed my musical life forever. It can only be described as a
peak experience. On a tune called Super Strut, when it was my turn to take a lead, I turned on the reverb and distortion on my amp and let my fingers fly. I went into a mental and physical state which, if talked about in ordinary terms, sounds unconvincing and if talked about in flowery, metaphysical terms sounds far fetched. Let's just say that music decided at that point to show me another world of experience.

One other thing came out of these very humble gigs: original music. We found a great deal of joy in the little ditties that we wrote and this was the first sign that maybe, just maybe, there was a little more to this than two losers in polyester.

Next: Evolution - Let's Add More Guys?

The Velvet Papers, Pt 1

2011-04-01T12:30:00.001-04:00

The Background in Brief

At first, there were two. Two guys: Jim, who played guitar and Craig, on piano. (They were high school friends, but never played together in high school.) Both felt their musical abilities were dubious, but one had an insurmountable ego, despite any supporting evidence. The other, decidely humble even to this day. Ask either one to describe themselves (then or now) and one word would emerge in perfect syncronization: "Losers."

The other considered music more to be a diversion, a hobby. Personality wise, they were exact opposites: the excitable German and the laid back Italian. Both shared an equal interest in crafting a good buzz and having fun. All was well and innocent in those long ago days.

On college breaks, our dubious twosome could be found, amidst the chaos of four other siblings and a house where everyone wanted to congregate, trying to make something worthwhile out of their limited musical imaginations.

There were problems. Neither of us could play rock or jazz very well-although these were influences. What the hell could we play? Original music and music that held a common thread-Latin music or more specifically, bossa nova was one recurrent theme. Though early attempts at composing were usually pretty lame affairs. In fact, upon reflection, this was an odd couple from the start. Think of all the great piano and guitar duets. Yeah, that's right. None come to mind. Losers.

Lounge god Nick Winters - the template for all
things Velvet and lounge.

When you fail at rock and jazz, what can come? Lounge. Yes, Lounge, that truly American "art" form that Bill Murray so accurately parodied on SNL. Lounge existed before Murray and still does.

Oh yeah, we could lounge, baby.

These casual musical meetings continued over the years as both tried to get a college degree. The pianist sought a practical degree in engineering or something of a technical nature whilst the guitarist pursued a music degree with an emphasis in music education. (As blogged before, the desire to learn about music was a fixed star for the young six stringer despite the hellish conditions of the state college he attended.)

It's Go Time

Addendum: we called our first outing, The Candle Light Tour (86-87) because of some leftover electric cheezo candles that were near the "stage."

No completely private music making can ultimately be satisfying to the musician. Music must be shared. An audience changes, revises, weighs and ultimately gives meaning to the work of the musicians. Even at our wretched level, we knew we had to play out to grow as players.

Even if it's played at a dive steak house owned by the piano player's dad.

Yes, it has always looked this sad, run down
and generally lower tier.

Craig's dad owned the Cantina. Formerly Lazlo's (?) Steak House. Uncle Tony ( as I and others called him) ran the joint with a careful, if not slightly chintzy, business sense. T knew the bottom line: get a crowd of regulars. There was Taco Wednesday and Three Dollar Pitcher night, etc. He developed a bar that felt like your neighborhood pub, but with an odd mix of socio-economic levels.

We had to play there because we were too weird to play anywhere else. So, the Velvet Brothers were born.

Digression: The name came from a fake interview I was doing of Craig. See? Even then, I was a faux journalist. I asked him about his time in the Velvet Brothers (This was long before Spinal Tap which came out in 1984). " The Velvet Brothers?" was his confused reply and the seeds were planted in the lounge soil.

Next: You can't play at a dive without the right equipment or wardrobe. Or can you?

Johnny Velvet Made Flesh

2011-04-01T11:59:00.000-04:00

Note to readers: I saw this cat in Charlotte. I was gobsmacked. I knew lounge existed, but I didn't think I would ever see something this authentic.

Arboretum Location
9:30 pm
Live Entertainment: Bobby Ryder

Bobby Ryder performs live at Mickey & Mooch - the other joint from 8:30 p.m. until 12:00 a.m.

Jazz Corner has some of the most popular local bands playing nightly. They include the Earl Williams quartet, and Bobby Ryder, who played for years at the Hilton.

BOBBY RYDER

If longevity is the goal of most professional entertainers; then Bobby Ryder has proven himself a master. Now in his fourth decade of entertaining, Bobby has allowed his music and his creativity to flourish with fresh innovative performances night after night. Over the years Bobby has developed into a lead nightclub singer with a musical range that extends from 50's and 60's oldies to ballads, blues, shag and his current favorite, Sinatra. He had been a headliner at various Playboy Clubs, the Peppermint Lounge, Radio City Music Hall (198 shows!), The Sheridan in Atlanta (3 years) and the Royal Hawaiian Hotel on Oahu (3 years).

Bobby has also appeared on numerous cruise ships and has released two CD's of his music. Bobby Ryder is one of those truly talented professionals who will captivate an audience with his energy and with his ability to play or sing virtually any request. He performs regularly at The Jazz Corner in The Village at Wexford where he performs all styles of jazz including big band, blues, ballads and the music of Frank Sinatra!

Fade to Gray

2011-03-30T13:41:00.000-04:00

My pal from my Baltimore days, Bill Gray, was always a good photographer. What I am seeing on his site now is simply stunning. He captures so much and with so much skill that I am dumbfounded by his work.

I can't show you many of his pictures on this post because he has them copyright protected. Of course, why not? They are a miracle to behold.

LINKS: http://www.flickr.com/photos/bgrax/
http://www.graypixposts.com/
http://www.graypictures.com/

Case 39

2011-03-25T22:02:00.000-04:00

Rent this, ye movie heads. To say more, would ruin it.

Stuff

2011-03-24T22:26:00.000-04:00

Aftermath of a hail storm, March 23, 2011

2011-03-24T22:15:00.000-04:00

Got caught in a hail storm on Wednesday. It was intense. Shortly after, I took this shot from my car. The Newb did some retouch to make it better.

No Good Deed

2011-03-24T13:31:00.000-04:00

As I pull up to the ATM, I see a car pulling out. I see something on the screen which I do not at first comprehend. In white letters across a blue screen, I see a familiar prompt:

DO YOU WISH TO MAKE ANOTHER TRANSACTION?

Then it dawns on me. The people in front have left their card in the midst of a transaction. No password needed, all is there for me if I want it.

Of course, a camera takes a picture (or video) of everyone who uses the machine, but still, this is no temptation for me. If this was a machine that dispensed cake, for example, then a couple of chocolate cakes might have gone missing, but thievery is not among my sins.

The next day I call the bank and I expect a hero's welcome or at least a hearty thank-you from whomever discovers my noble deed.

Hardly.

Despite all my efforts to give the lady (who sounds bored and somewhere else in her thoughts) the name on the card in order for them NOT to worry, all she keeps repeating is:

"Just bring the card in, sir."

And I did. What did I expect? Don't know. Delight? Gratitude to see an honest person? A parade in my honor? At least.

By the way, when the card ejected, the balance slip said a lot.

$5.82.

Let Me In

2011-03-24T12:39:00.000-04:00

Let Me In is a remaking of the Swedish Let the Right One In and it is perfect. Usually these kind of renderings from one country to another turn south pretty quickly. This film is damn near perfect. In fact, I wish I had seen this first for no other reason that reading subtitles can detract from the experience.

Great cast, story, acting, etc. This gets an A+.

Sarcasm: Never Leave Home Without It

2011-03-24T12:25:00.000-04:00

"Oh yes, you are interrupting my day."

I realize that my blood pressure medicine is about to run out. I call the doctor's office who first gave me the prescription.

"I'm sorry," said the nasal voice on the phone, "You'll have to get your cardiologist to fill it." Fine. Call the cardiologist's - always an ordeal to even get through-but this time a helpful, friendly person listened patiently to me and my need to have a prescription filled. "Done and done," thought I as she said, "Mmmm bye."

Wrong.

Nothing is ever done in this century (or the last) without some kind of hitch or foul-up. Following up is always a necessity and sure as shit, there was a hitch.

Another voice from doc's office: "Now, what is written on the label?" This voice is of the female office worker kind, one that reeks of disdain for patients. The issue is whether or not I'm taking the right dosage.

"I don't have it front of me. I'm at work. I'll call home."

"Put me on hold then."

So, a short process later, info on bottle revealed nothing germane, she then says, "I'll call the pharmacy."

Soon, Ms. Disdainful calls and tells me that the prescription is this and that.

"OK?" as if this is the end of the conversation.

"Did you call in the prescription?" My whole reason, right?

"I wish you had told me that before."
This was the whole fucking point, lady, but I guess you didn't get the memo.
Her tone is not to my liking, but before I can respond with something smart-ass, she hurrys me off with, "I'll call them back."
I often think that perhaps my inwardly mistrustful and outwardly smartass attitude towards those who work in positions of self-perceived authority is immature and that I should change.

When I'm proven wrong by human nature, then I'll eat crow, but until then, I'll keep my sarcasm close at at the ready.

One Word Review

2011-03-19T14:52:00.000-04:00

Disturbing.

Take a Bite Outta This

2011-03-13T21:11:00.000-04:00

I am zombie film snob. No question about it. Though I will rent just about anything that has zombies in it, most of it is pretty bad. Even zombie god director George Romero has been releasing some stinkers lately.

Enter The Walking Dead on AMC. You can tell a lot by a trailer and I immediately sensed that this was going to be a worthy addition to the undead legacy. To me, zombies represent a truly horrifying dystopian nightmare where the real threat are your friends and neighbors, now turned into ravenous cannibals, whose mere bite (or scratch) turns you into the undead. Well, some people are pretty close to that now, come to think of it.

I'm going to bundle this purchase with Being There (Deluxe Edition)- a film starring the incredible Peter Sellars. Reviews have said this has nothing about the special features that is "deluxe," but for me, it's a masterpiece of comedy.

I don't want to wait for my birthday either, dammit.

Not So Triumphant

2011-03-10T12:45:00.000-05:00

"OK, boys, let's shoot the toilet bowl brigade again."

This time, Big Brother is wondering about me. I'm pretty sure I must be on a list somewhere.

I have been watching Triumph of the Will on Netflix. I have always heard that this is a great film- a triumph of film making. There is no doubt that this is a historically significant film, probably ahead of its time and technically astounding for 1934.

The problem is that it drags. I can sit through hours and hours of cinema, but this Nazi fest is sluggish.

This (barf) love letter to the Führer is tedious. It's overly long and has many repetitive sequences. However, filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl captures some truly iconic moments: the overhead shot of the goose stepping, jackbooted soldiers, arms all extended in salute, is a powerful moment as are the creepy Hitler youth, blond and full of hope, banging on drums. Indelible images, all.

"Time to clean the trenches! Ja wohl, meine Arschloch."

There's no question of the historical value, but filming every parade and little brigade of horses, tanks and dudes with shovels becomes almost unbearable to sit through.

Better to watch the History Channel and get the right edits.

The Promise to Change

2011-03-08T14:11:00.000-05:00

"Give me your tired, your weary and people with foot-long scars on their chests."

That little phrase popped into my head one afternoon as I was punishing myself on the rowing machine. Of course, my sense of humor is not for all. It's best to keep a close watch on such things sometimes. It can save you a lot of puzzled looks.

Sometimes, when I look around at the people attending the 4 o'clock cardiac rehab session, I wonder how in the hell I ended up there. Even over four months later, my brain cannot wrap itself around the shock of open heart surgery. I suspect that, despite the cavalier attitudes I've heard from some patients, all of us in this exclusive club have felt this way.

The 4 o'clock regulars are a motley bunch, ranging in age from 30 plus to at least 60 plus, all in vastly different shape. Some have to deal with diabetics, others gout, others still obesity. By some standards, I am "young." Even my cardiologist calls me this ridiculous "mistruth". I smile and run with the compliment, but remember what young really was and meant ( I accept my age and you won't see me in some pathetic beyond-mid-life-crisis red sports car. Mostly because I can't afford one).

My attitude is like the overly enthusiastic nerd. I look forward to that blissful hour where all I do is build my strength. Cell phone, TV, wallet, Facebook, worries, stressed-out situations are all left at home.

Call me Mr. Chatty. I have to dial down my outward enthusiasm. I'm not seeking long term friendships, but I try to get a few words out of the people next to me. Fuck, we are here for twelve weeks, why not? People there are generally friendly, though I sense some feel that this is a form of punishment. Sure, when I arrive after work and body parts are slow and slightly achy, I don't feel the purpose until about 4 minutes into the treadmill. After that, I'm born again.

Kilgore: How do you feel, Jimmy?
Jimmy: Like a mean motherfucker, sir!

When I first arrived, I was told, "You are only here for a short time." Yep, that turned out to be true. I am in week five and it feels like week two. Two have "graduated" and were given a round of applause, a t-shirt and a certificate of completion. Most give a short, heartfelt (pun inserted) speech encouraging those to carry on. Some say they will continue with walks at home, some over to Nautilus.

That's the point. It's a lifetime choice, not a passing fancy.

That's what that scar is: a promise of change.

To Express the Inexpressible

2011-03-04T13:25:00.000-05:00

I'm glad that this isn't in my head. Whew!

I have always admired those who express themselves through the graphic medium. In the graphic arts, I search less for meaning than I do for color and shape. Discussions of meaning in graphic art can turn tedious quickly for me. I believe in brevity. It's like trying to explain the taste of something-pretty difficult and tiresome.

Gary Baseman's disturbing paintings speak for themselves, but if you want the artist's take, read this.

I also really like Andy Kehoe's work-detailed and funny. Andy's shop.

Yes.

One commenter said this about the painting below:

"What? Don’t get it. Looks like weird ways of getting pregnant or being pregnant. No idea what the artist is trying to show here. Letâ??s be honest here. Flowers falling out of some kind of creature, and what looks like chipmunks with nuts on their heads as helmets. I gave a 2 star rating for at least trying and in no way can I see people putting this in there homes."

See?

Pyramid Power

2011-03-04T12:11:00.000-05:00

"Who's the man? Get it, Time Lord? Who's the man?"

Kneel before the might of Sutekh!

I have to admit that the villain in this classic Dr. Who was very convincing and creepy, but sadly the bumbling, muscle bound mummies, the slaves of Sutekh, ruin what might have been a cool story.

I'll keep searching.

Notes From Hell

2011-03-02T14:08:00.000-05:00

This guy is one of our best. Simply compelling.

Still slowly exploring the world of Breaking Bad and the rewards are getting richer. I am especially amazed by the depth of Bryan Cranston, who plays lead character Walter White. White's life has been turned upside down and nearly over and out by the news that he has inoperable cancer.

With his deeply lined face, he can convey the utter depth of despair, the certain knowledge of mortality and the realization that he must, for his family's sake, bear the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" with minimal gesture. Fucking amazing actor.

The title of this show was a little off-putting. I thought it was about biker gangs and the meth trade. I got that all wrong. Well, there's the meth thing, but to say more would only ruin it.
This is a winner.

Gots to "Hab" the Rehab

2011-02-25T13:22:00.000-05:00

"You can look like me after rehab. Without the leopard
Speedo thing and fab gold boots of course."

After the general mental malaise went away, I went back to the my cardiologist and asked about rehab. Initial calls to rehab from her office not successful. No call-backs or lines were busy. Totally irony here because my cardiologist HEADS up this program. Ah, the battles of bureaucracy never end. A week or so passes and I get the call that, yes indeed, I am in. her office

I get a letter in the mail telling me to preregister (standard) and to expect no exercise on the first visit. This is consultation. I meet with a rather pleasant young man who walks me around the place, which is smaller than I expected, and shows me how to weigh myself, hook up a heart monitor and what I can expect. I am immediately impressed by the causal and friendly way this is being done. I also sense that there is an efficiency to this place.

I then meet with a nurse and we have a closed door talk. "Hmm...,"methinks, "To what purpose the closed door?" I am then answering questions about my medical history. Now, it makes sense. We have a pleasant chat about all these things and then the "How are you feeling" stuff comes.

I want to say, in my best Hannibal voice, "Oh Agent Starling, are trying to dissect me with that blunt little tool?" I resist all temptations (though I am vain enough to let a psychologist or a psychiatrist into my head to truly understand what makes me so offbeat), but best not tempt professionals on their own turf. I tell her honestly about the mental stuff immediately following surgery. I did joke at the end about the voices in my head spoke Spanish and since I have a limited vocabulary in this language, there was no danger of any rooftop jumping. She took this in the spirit I intended. Hopefully...

A colleague of mine, a man who used to intimidate the hell out of me, went through the same surgery years ago. This has become our bond as he usually comes in at least one or two days a week to chat about this very subject. He told me, "You don't realize how weak your body is right now." Those words contain both truth and wisdom. As I finish week three, I am beginning to glimpse this.

CAMC Cardiac Rehab has the latest in high tech exercise
equipment.

I enjoy the hell out of it. Here I can focus on my body, leaving all other concerns outside the door. I carry nothing on me except a watch which can read my pulse. Cell phone, wallet, keys and all other annoyances are left at home.

I was talking to a fellow musician who is having heart issues. I gave him my take on this: "For years I have dedicated my time and life to the guitar and music. Now, it's time to dedicate the second half to taking care of my body." He agreed. It's a new game in an old body. Exercise is not optional, it's mandatory.

Coming home, there's always a point where the endorphins kick in. That painkilling feeling of well-being, peace and a quiet place well nurtured inside of me. It's a sacred place.

And it's about damn time.

Re-enter the Light

2011-02-24T13:21:00.000-05:00

They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab

I was barely out of ICU when a smiling woman came into my room one afternoon and introduced herself. She informed me she worked for Cardiac Rehabilitation. She told me, "I know you're not even thinking about this yet, but I wanted to leave this pamphlet for you." I smiled and exchanged pleasantries and said pamphlet was left for my perusal.

I really didn't have any doubts or issues with the idea of Cardiac Rehab because my cardiologist had told me before surgery: "Young men like yourself (She's really stretching the definition there, yes?) go through the surgery just fine, but often have trouble more 'from here up' (indicating from the neck up). In other words, patients of my age are likely to have depression post surgery.

My cousin Norman had warned me about this in typical family style - blunt, no frills, and to the point: "They knock the shit out of you. You go around thinking that you're this alpha male and then you realize that you can't do what you used to and you have to rely on other people." Well, I have never considered myself an alpha male by any stretch, but nothing prepares you for the post surgery experience.

Leave some body parts alone, ok?

A feeling of helplessness was never an issue in the three weeks following surgery, it was more the shock of seeing my battered body in the shower for the first time. I had bruises, wounds all over (Remember I had my appendix out, then a heart cath, then the bypass all within a three week span.) topped off by long scar running from my neck down past mid-chest, held together by metal staples.

In short, what the fuck was I? Man or surgical experiment?

People often spout that empty platitude of "it only matters what's on the inside." Bull fucking shit. Once yours is a bit torn up, it shocks the system.

I never experienced straight out depression, but rather a deep sense of confusion and shock was my post surgical state of mind. People or socializing were unwelcome. I had a deep sense of mistrust. I didn't want anybody to see me in such a state.

The pain meds have to go or you are hiding in a frail shell, delaying your coming back into life. And coming back into life is precisely what is happening and little glimpses of it begin to appear in very small ways.

It wasn't until about 8 weeks that I began to get back a sense of my old self. A sense of humor, a freeness, a lightness and with purpose and continuity - all these things I fel had been stripped away with the surgeon's blade.

Next: Rehab Just Ain't For Druggies

2011-02-23T12:25:00.000-05:00

Plenty of the old ultra-violence my droogies.

Last year, Andy Whitfield's star was on the rise. He was the focus point of Spartacus: Blood and Sand, an in-your-face bloody brutality fest about gladiators who are slaves in the house of Batiatus. These poor bastards work out and train from dawn until dusk, all awaiting their chance of glory in the arena. Glory means slaughtering their opponent and winning the hearts of the blood crazed crowd.

Though the series had the look of the film 300 and redefined "over-the-top" on a weekly basis, it ultimately was the acting that saved this series from being more of a cartoon than a drama.

This season's Spartacus: Gods of the Arena had to take a prequel direction because of health issues with Whitfield (God love him, but Starz has replaced him for next season). I thought that this might be a real stretch with last minute scrambling by the writers, but I was wrong. This season is sharply focused on Lentulus Batiatus (played perfectly by John Hannah) and his determination to get his fighters a prominent place in the arena. Of course, his path blocked by real scoundrels like Tullius, who is so despicable, he makes even the coarse and ruthless Batitatus seem sympathetic.

Plenty of twists and turns in this season and no character seems immune to misfortune. Ahh....humna nature. Hast thou changed?

Tullius: thy name means bastard.

The Doctor is "In"

2011-02-21T20:05:00.000-05:00

I am recent convert to the instant gratification that is Netflix. I usually come to just about all parties a little late, so bear with my obvious revelations.

Every 12-year-old's sci-fi fantasy was Leela.

One of these recent indulgences is the classic Doctor Who series featuring the greatest Doctor, Tom Baker. I suppose every fan of the series has a favorite Doctor, but I came to the series in the early 80's and he was the man.

Doc talks some sense into an alien snot ball.

I was living at home at the time (a big mistake) and as Robert in Everybody Loves Raymond says the food is incredible, but like a bear in the zoo, "they keep you doped up on the sauces." It was part of my pre-dinner ritual to watch the good Doctor romp through these silly, ultra-low budget sci-fi episodes. Looking back at the visual technology of the '80's, now it all seems prehistoric, but it's the story lines (however thin) and Baker's quirky performance that makes this worth a watch.

The first one I watched was The Androids of Tara. Well, it was like they mashed up the Middle Ages with hack stage (over) actors all to find some crystal to aid in time travel. Or something. It did not play well. Even Baker could not save this from dullsville.

Much better, though some CGI might have helped some scenes, was Horror of Fang Rock. Give me some fog, a lighthouse and an alien and I'm suspending disbelief like a bitch. Leela (as if you didn't see the picture), the series siren, was not in her now famous leather garb, but was wearing period clothes. Louise Jameson is actually a good actress and not just eye candy. One lone bummer in the cast, the woman playing Adelaide, was way over-the-top, but she doesn't ruin the good fun.

The 12 year-old in me wants to own all the Tom Bakers, but prices are still high. An episode is broken down into three parts of a total 1:35:00 minutes of Who. Not bad.

Next: The Pyramids of Mars.